





* 



« 










MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS 






COPYRIGHT. 1891. BY THE ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT. 1893. 1899, BY HAMLIN GARLAND 


\,ls%IOO 


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* * * 



L-M 


MY FATHER AND MOTHER 


WHOSE HALF-CENTURY PILGRIMAGE ON THE MAIN- 
TRAVELLED ROAD OF LIFE HAS BROUGHT THEM 
ONLY TOIL AND DEPRIVATION, THIS BOOK OF STO- 
RIES IS DEDICATED BY A SON TO WHOM EVERY 
DAY BRINGS A DEEPENING SENSE OF HIS PARENTS * 
SILENT HEROISM ******** 



THE MAIN-TRAVELLED ROAD in the West 
(as everywhere') is hot and dusty in summer , and desolate 
and drear with mud in fall and spring , and in winter the 
winds sweep the snow across it ; but it does sometimes cross a 
rich meadow where the songs of the larks and bobolinks and 
blackbirds are tangled. Follow it far enough , it may lead 
past a bend in the river where the water laughs eternally 
over its shallows . 

Mainly it is long and weary ful, and has a dull little town 
at one end and a home of toil at the other. Like the main- 
travelled road of life it is traversed by many classes of people , 
but the poor and the weary predominate . 



































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Table of Contents 


Introduction . 

A Branch Road 
Up the Coolly 
Among the Corn-Rows 
The Return of a Private 
Under the Lion’s Paw 

•9 

The Creamery Man 
A Day’s Pleasure . 
Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 
Uncle Ethan Ripley 


PAGE 

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7 

67 

131 

167 

195 

219 

245 

261 


28 


















































































































































































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INTRODUCTION 


An interesting phase of fiction, at present, is the ma- 
terial prosperity of the short story, which seems to have 
followed its artistic excellence among us with uncommon 
obedience to a law that ought always to prevail. Until 
of late the publisher has been able to say to the author, 
dazzled and perhaps deceived by his magazine success 
with short stories, and fondly intending to make a book 
of them, “Yes. But collections of short stories don’t 
sell. The public won’t have them. I don’t know why ; 
but it won’t.” 

This was never quite true of the short stories of Mr. 
Bret Harte, or of Miss Sarah Orne Jewett, or of Mr. T. 
B. Aldrich ; but it was too true of the short stories of most 
other writers. For some reason, or for none, the very 
people who liked an author’s short stories in the maga- 
zine could not bear them, or would not buy them, when 
he put several of them together in a volume. They then 
became obnoxious, or at least undesirable ; somewhat as 
human beings, agreeable enough as long as they are singly 
domiciled in one’s block, become a positive detriment to 
the neighborhood when gathered together in a boarding- 
house. A novel not half so good by the same author 
would formerly outsell his collection of short stories five 
times over. Perhaps it would still outsell the stories \ 
b x 


2 


Main -Travelled Roads 


we rather think it would ; but not in that proportion. 
The hour of the short story in book form has struck, 
apparently, for with all our love and veneration for pub- 
lishers, we have never regarded them as martyrs to litera- 
ture, and we do not believe they would now be issuing 
so many volumes of short stories if these did not pay. 
Publishers, with all their virtues, are as distinctly made a 
little lower than the angels as any class of mortals we 
know. They are, in fact, a tentative and timid kind, 
never quite happy except in full view of the main chance ; 
and just at this moment, this chance seems to wear the 
diversified physiognomy of the collected short stories. 
We do not know how it has happened ; we should not 
at all undertake to say ; but it is probably attributable to 
a number of causes. It may be the prodigious popularity 
of Mr. Kipling, which has broken down all prejudices 
against the form of his success. The vogue that Mau- 
passant’s tales in the original or in versions have enjoyed 
may have had something to do with it. Possibly the 
critical recognition of the American supremacy in this 
sort has helped. But however it has come about, it is 
certain that the result has come, and the publishers are 
fearlessly adventuring volumes of short stories on every 
hand ; and not only short stories by authors of estab- 
lished repute, but by new writers, who would certainly 
not have found this way to the public some time ago. 

The change by no means indicates that the pleasure 
in large fiction is dying out. This remains of as ample 
gorge as ever. But it does mean that a quite reasonless 
reluctance has given way, and that a young writer can 


Introduction 


3 


now hope to come under the fire of criticism much sooner 
than before. This may not be altogether a blessing ; it 
has its penalties inherent in the defective nature of criti- 
cism, or the critics ; but undoubtedly it gives the young 
author definition and fixity in the reader’s knowledge. 
It enables him to continue a short-story writer if he likes, 
or it prepares the public not to be surprised at him if he 
turns out a novelist. 


II 

These are advantages, and we must not be impatient 
of any writer who continues a short-story writer when 
he might freely become a novelist. Now that a writer 
can profitably do so, he may prefer to grow his fiction 
on the dwarf stock. He may plausibly contend that this 
was the original stock, and that the novella was a short 
story many ages before its name was appropriated by the 
standard variety, the duodecimo American, or the three- 
volume English ; that Boccaccio was a world-wide celeb- 
rity five centuries before George Eliot was known to 
be a woman. To be sure, we might come back at him 
with the Greek romancers ; we might ask him what he 
had to say to the interminable tales of Heliodorus and 
Longus, and the rest, and then not let him say. 

But no such controversy is necessary to the enjoyment 
of the half dozen volumes of short stories at hand, and 
we gladly postpone it till we have nothing to talk about. 
At present we have only too much to talk about in a 
book so robust and terribly serious as Mr. Hamlin Gar- 
land’s volume called Main -Travelled Roads. That is 


4 


Main -Travelled Roads 


what they call the highways in the part of the West that 
Mr. Garland comes from and writes about; and these 
stories are full of the bitter and burning dust, the foul 
and trampled slush, of the common avenues of life, the 
life of the men who hopelessly and cheerlessly make the 
wealth that enriches the alien and the idler, and impover- 
ishes the producer. 

If any one is still at a loss to account for that uprising 
of the farmers in the West which is the translation of 
the Peasants’ War into modern and republican terms, let 
him read Main -Travelled Roads , and he will begin to 
understand, unless, indeed, Mr. Garland is painting the 
exceptional rather than the average. The stories are 
full of those gaunt, grim, sordid, pathetic, ferocious 
figures, whom our satirists find so easy to caricature as 
Hayseeds, and whose blind groping for fairer conditions 
is so grotesque to the newspapers and so menacing to 
the politicians. They feel that something is wrong, and 
they know that the wrong is not theirs. The type 
caught in Mr. Garland’s book is not pretty ; it is ugly 
and often ridiculous ; but it is heart-breaking in its rude 
despair. 

The story of a farm mortgage, as it is told in the 
powerful sketch “ Under the Lion’s Paw,” is a lesson in 
political economy, as well as a tragedy of the darkest 
cast. w The Return of the Private ” is a satire of the 
keenest edge, as well as a tender and mournful idyl of 
the unknown soldier who comes back after the war with 
no blare of welcoming trumpets or flash of streaming 
flags, but foot-sore, heart-sore, with no stake in the 


Introduction 


5 


country he has helped to make safe and rich but the poor 
man’s chance to snatch an uncertain subsistence from 
the furrows he left for the battle-field. 

“ Up the Coolly,” however, is the story which most 
pitilessly of all accuses our vaunted conditions, wherein 
every man has the chance to rise above his brother and 
make himself richer than his fellows. It shows us once 
for all what the risen man may be, and portrays in his 
good-natured selfishness and indifference that favorite 
ideal of our system. The successful brother comes 
back to the old farmstead, prosperous, handsome, well- 
dressed, and full of patronizing sentiment for his boy- 
hood days there, and he cannot understand why his 
brother, whom hard work and corroding mortgages have 
eaten all the joy out of, gives him a grudging and surly 
welcome. It is a tremendous situation, and it is the 
allegory of the whole world’s civilization : the upper 
dog and the under dog are everywhere, and the under 
dog nowhere likes it. 

But the allegorical effects are not the primary intent 
of Mr. Garland’s work : it is a work of art, first of all, 
and we think of fine art ; though the material will strike 
many gentilities as coarse and common. In one of the 
stories, “ Among the Corn-Rows,” there is a good deal 
of burly, broad-shouldered humor of a fresh and native 
kind; in “ Mrs. Ripley’s Trip” is a delicate touch, like 
that of Miss Wilkins ; but Mr. Garland’s touches are 
his own, here and elsewhere. He has a certain harsh- 
ness and bluntness, an indifference to the more delicate 
charms of style, and he has still to learn that though the 


6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


thistle is full of an unrecognized poetry, the rose has 
a poetry, too, that even over-praise cannot spoil. But 
he has a fine courage to leave a fact with the reader, 
ungarnished and unvarnished, which is almost the rarest 
trait in an Anglo-Saxon writer, so infantile and feeble is 
the custom of our art ; and this attains tragical sublim- 
ity in the opening sketch, u A Branch Road,” where 
the lover who has quarrelled with his betrothed comes 
back to find her mismated and miserable, such a farm 
wife as Mr. Garland has alone dared to draw, and 
tempts the broken-hearted drudge away from her love- 
less home. It is all morally wrong, but the author 
leaves you to say that yourself. He knows that his 
business was with those two people, their passions and 
their probabilities. 

W. D. HOWELLS 

(/» the Editor's Study , “ Harper' s Magazine ’*). 


A BRANCH ROAD 


ft Keep the main- travelled road till you 
come to a branch leading off — keep to 
the right ” 







A BRANCH ROAD 


In the windless September dawn a voice went ring- 
ing clear and sweet, a man’s voice, singing a cheap 
and common air. Yet something in the sound of it 
told he was young, jubilant, and a happy lover. 

Above the level belt of timber to the east a vast 
dome of pale undazzling gold was rising, silently and 
swiftly. Jays called in the thickets where the maples 
flamed amid the green oaks, with irregular splashes of 
red and orange. The grass was crisp with frost under 
the feet, the road smooth and gray-white in color, the 
air was indescribably pure, resonant, and stimulating. 
No wonder the man sang ! 

He came into view around the curve in the lane. He 
had a fork on his shoulder, a graceful and polished tool. 
His straw hat was tilted on the back of his head; his 
rough, faded coat was buttoned close to the chin, 
and he wore thin buckskin gloves on his hands. He 
looked muscular and intelligent, and was evidently about 
twenty-two years of age. 

As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer to him, 
he stopped his song. The broadening heavens had a 
majesty and sweetness that made him forget the physical 
joy of happy youth. He grew almost sad with the 
9 


IO 


Main -Travelled Roads 


vague thoughts and great emotions which rolled in his 
brain as the wonder of the morning grew. 

He walked more slowly, mechanically following the 
road, his eyes on the ever-shifting streaming banners of 
rose and pale green, which made the east too glorious 
for any words to tell. The air was so still it seemed to 
await expectantly the coming of the sun. 

Then his mind went forward to Agnes. Would she 
see it ? She was at work, getting breakfast, but he 
hoped she had time to see it. He was in that mood, 
so common to him now, wherein he could not fully 
enjoy any sight or sound unless sharing it with her. 
Far down the road he heard the sharp clatter of a 
wagon. The roosters were calling near and far, in 
many keys and tunes. The dogs were barking, cattle- 
bells were jangling in the wooded pastures, and as the 
youth passed farmhouses, lights in the kitchen windows 
showed that the women were astir about breakfast, and 
the sound of voices and the tapping of curry-combs at 
the barn told that the men were at their morning chores. 

And the east bloomed broader ! The dome of gold 
grew brighter, the faint clouds here and there flamed 
with a flush of red. The frost began to glisten with a 
reflected color. The youth dreamed as he walked ; his 
broad face and deep earnest eyes caught and retained 
some part of the beauty and majesty of the sky. 

But his brow darkened as he passed a farm gate and 
a young man of about his own age joined him. The 
other man was equipped for work like himself. 

“ Hello, Will!” 


A Branch Road 


II 


“ Hello, Ed ! ” 

“ Going down to help Dingman thrash ! ” 

u Yes,” replied Will, shortly. It was easy to see he 
did not welcome company. 

M So’m I. Who’s goin’ to do your thrashin’ — Dave 
McT urg ? ” 

“Yes, I guess so. Haven’t spoken to anybody yet.” 

They walked on side by side. Will hardly felt like 
being rudely broken in on in this way. The two men 
were rivals, but Will, being the victor, would have been 
magnanimous, only he wanted to be alone with his lover’s 
dream. 

M When do you go back to the Sem ? ” Ed asked after 
a little. 

“Term begins next week. I’ll make a break about 
second week.” 

“ Le’s see : you graduate next year, don’t yeh ? ” 

“ I expect to, if I don’t slip up on it.” 

They walked on side by side, both handsome 
fellows ; Ed a little more showy in his face, which 
had a certain clear-cut precision of line, and a peculiar 
clear pallor that never browned under the sun. He 
chewed vigorously on a quid of tobacco, one of his most 
noticeable bad habits. 

Teams could be heard clattering along on several 
roads now, and jovial voices singing. One team coming 
along rapidly behind the two men, the driver sung out 
in good-natured warning, u Get out o’ the way, there.” 
And with a laugh and a chirp spurred his horses to pass 
them. 


12 


Main-Travelled Roads 


Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver’s trick, 
flung out his left hand and caught the end-gate, threw his 
fork in and leaped after it. Will walked on, disdaining 
attempt to catch the wagon. On all sides now the 
wagons of the ploughmen or threshers were getting out 
into the fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound. 

The pale-red sun was shooting light through the 
leaves, and warming the boles of the great oaks that 
stood in the yard, and melting the frost off the great 
gaudy, red and gold striped threshing machine standing 
between the stacks. The interest, picturesqueness, of 
it all got hold of Will Hannan, accustomed to it as 
he was. The horses stood about in a circle, hitched 
to the ends of the six sweeps, every rod shining with 
frost. 

The driver was oiling the great tarry cog-wheels 
underneath. Laughing fellows were wrestling about the 
yard. Ed Kinney had scaled the highest stack, and 
stood ready to throw the first sheaf. The sun, lighting 
him where he stood, made his fork-handle gleam like 
dull gold. Cheery words, jests, and snatches of song 
rose everywhere. Dingman bustled about giving his 
orders and placing his men, and the voice of big David 
McTurg was heard calling to the men as they raised the 
long stacker into place : 

u Heave ho, there ! Up she rises ! ” 

And, best of all, Will caught a glimpse of a smiling 
girl-face at the kitchen window that made the blood beat 
in his throat. 

u Hello, Will ! ” was the general greeting, given with 


A Branch Road 


*3 


some constraint by most of the young fellows, for Will 
had been going to Rock River to school for some years, 
and there was a little feeling of jealousy on the part of 
those who pretended to sneer at the “ seminary chaps 
like Will Hannan and Milton Jennings.” 

Dingman came up. u Will, I guess you’d better go 
on the stack with Ed.” 

cc All ready. Hurrah, there!” said David in his soft 
but resonant bass voice that always had a laugh in it. 
“ Come, come, every sucker of yeh git hold o’ some- 
thing. All ready ! ” He waved his hand at the driver, 
who climbed upon his platform. Everybody scrambled 
into place. 

The driver began to talk : 

“Chk , chk! All ready, boys! Stiddy there, Dan! 
Chk , chk ! All ready, boys ! Stiddy there, boys ! All 
ready now ! ” The horses began to strain at the 
sweeps. The cylinder began to hum. 

u Grab a root there ! Where’s my band-cutter ? 
Here, you, climb on here ! ” And David reached down 
and pulled Shep Watson up by the shoulder with his 
gigantic hand. 

Boo-oo-oo-oom, Boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-owm, 
yarr, yarr ! The whirling cylinder boomed, roared, and 
snarled as it rose in speed. At last, when its tone be- 
came a rattling yell, David nodded to the pitchers and 
rasped his hands together. The sheaves began to fall 
from the stack ; the band-cutter, knife in hand, slashed 
the bands in twain, and the feeder with easy majestic 
movement gathered them under his arm, rolled them out 


14 


Main -Travelled Roads 


into an even belt of entering wheat, on which the 
cylinder tore with its smothered, ferocious snarl. 

Will was very happy in a quiet way. He enjoyed 
the smooth roll of his great muscles, and the sense of 
power in his hands as he lifted, turned, and swung the 
heavy sheaves two by two upon the table, where the band- 
cutter madly slashed away. His frame, sturdy rather than 
tall, was nevertheless lithe, and he made a fine figure to 
look at, so Agnes thought, as she came out a moment 
and bowed and smiled. 

This scene, one of the jolliest and most sociable of 
the Western farm, had a charm quite aside from human 
companionship. The beautiful yellow straw entering 
the cylinder ; the clear yellow-brown wheat pulsing out 
at the side ; the broken straw, chaff, and dust puffing out 
on the great stacker ; the cheery whistling and calling of 
the driver ; the keen, crisp air, and the bright sun some- 
how weirdly suggestive of the passage of time. 

Will and Agnes had arrived at a tacit understand- 
ing of mutual love only the night before, and Will was 
powerfully moved to glance often toward the house, but 
feared as never before the jokes of his companions. He 
worked on, therefore, methodically, eagerly ; but his 
thoughts were on the future — the rustle of the oak-tree 
near by, the noise of whose sere leaves he could distin- 
guish sifting beneath the booming snarl of the machine, 
was like the sound of a woman’s dress : on the sky 
were great fleets of clouds sailing on the rising wind, 
like merchantmen bound to some land of love and 
plenty. 


A Branch Road 


*5 

When the Dingmans first came in, only a coupie 
of years before, Agnes had been at once surrounded by 
a swarm of suitors. Her pleasant face and her abound- 
ing good-nature made her an instant favorite with all. 
Will, however, had disdained to become one of the 
crowd, *and held himself aloof, as he could easily do, 
being away at school most of the time. 

The second winter, however, Agnes also attended 
the seminary, and Will saw her daily, and grew to love 
her. He had been just a bit jealous of Ed Kinney all 
the time, for Ed had a certain rakish grace in dancing 
and a dashing skill in handling a team, which made him 
a dangerous rival. 

But, as Will worked beside him all the Monday, he 
felt so secure in his knowledge of the caress Agnes had 
given him at parting the night before that he was per- 
fectly happy — so happy that he didn’t care to talk, only 
to work on and dream as he worked. 

Shrewd David McTurg had his joke when the ma- 
chine stopped for a few minutes. “Well, you fellers 
do better ’n I expected yeh to, after bein’ out so late last 
night. The first feller I see gappin’ has got to treat to 
the apples.” 

w Keep your eye on me,” said Shep Watson. 

“ You ? ” laughed one of the others. “ Anybody 
knows if a girl so much as looked crossways at you, 
you’d fall in a fit.” 

“ Another thing,” said David. “ I can’t have you 
fellers carryin’ grain goin’ to the house every minute 
for fried cakes or cookies.” 


1 6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Now you git out,” said Bill Young from the straw 
pile. “ You ain’t goin’ to have all the fun to yerself.” 

Will’s blood began to grow hot in his face. If Bill 
had said much more, or mentioned Agnes by name, he 
would have silenced him. To have this rough joking 
come to a close upon the holiest and most exquisite 
evening of his life was horrible. It was not the words 
they said, but the tones they used, that vulgarized it all. 
He breathed a sigh of relief when the sound of the ma- 
chine began again. 

This jesting made him more wary, and when the call 
for dinner sounded and he knew he was going to see 
her, he shrank from it. He took no part in the race 
of the dust-blackened, half-famished men to get at the 
washing-place first. He took no part in the scurry to 
get seats at the first table. 

Threshing-time was always a season of great trial 
to the housewife. To have a dozen men with the 
appetites of dragons to cook for, in addition to their 
other everyday duties, was no small task for a couple 
of women. Preparations usually began the night before 
with a raid on a hen-roost, for u biled chickun ” formed 
the piece de resistance of the dinner. The table, enlarged 
by boards, filled the sitting room. Extra seats were 
made out of planks placed on chairs, and dishes were 
borrowed from neighbors, who came for such aid in their 
turn. 

Sometimes the neighboring women came in to help ; 
but Agnes and her mother were determined to manage 
the job alone this year, and so the girl, in neat dark 


A Branch Road 


*7 


dress, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed with the 
work, received the men as they came in, dusty, coatless, 
with grime behind their ears, but a jolly good smile on 
every face. 

Most of them were farmers of the neighborhood, and 
her schoolmates. The only one she shrank from was 
Bill Young, with his hard, glittering eyes and red, sordid 
face. She received their jokes, their noise, with a silent 
smile which showed her even teeth and dimpled her 
round cheek. “She was good for sore eyes,” as one of 
the fellows said to Shep. She seemed deliciously sweet 
and dainty to these roughly dressed fellows. 

They ranged along the table with a great deal of noise, 
boots thumping, squeaking, knives and forks rattling, 
voices bellowing out. 

“ Now hold on, Steve ! Can’t hev yeh so near that 
chickun ! ” 

“ Move along, Shep ! I want to be next to the 
kitchen door ! I won’t get nothin’ with you on that 
side o’ me.” 

u Oh, that’s too thin ! I see what you’re — ” 

u No, I won’t need any sugar, if you just smile into it.” 
This from gallant David, greeted with roars of laughter. 

u Now, Dave, s’pose your wife ’ud hear o’ that ? ” 

“ She’d snatch ’im bald-headed, that’s what she’d do.” 

“Say, somebody drive that ceow down this way,” 
said Bill. 

“ Don’t get off that drive ! It’s too old,” criticised 
Shep, passing the milk-jug. 

Potatoes were seized, cut in halves, sopped in gravy, 

c 


1 8 Main -Travelled Roads 

and taken one , two ! Corn cakes went into great jaws 
like coal into a steam-engine. Knives in the right hand 
cut meat and scooped gravy up. Great, muscular, 
grimy, but wholesome fellows they were, feeding like 
ancient Norse, and capable of working like demons. 
They were deep in the process, half-hidden by steam 
from the potatoes and stew, in less than sixty seconds 
after their entrance. 

With a shrinking from the comments of the others 
upon his regard for Agnes, Will assumed a reserved and 
almost haughty air toward his fellow-workmen, and a 
curious coldness toward her. As he went in, she came 
forward smiling brightly. 

“ There’s one more place, Will.” A tender, invol- 
untary droop in her voice betrayed her, and Will felt a 
wave of hot blood surge over him as the rest roared. 
u Ha, ha ! Oh, there’d be a place for him ! ” 
u Don’t worry, Will ! Always room for you here ! ” 
Will took his seat with a sudden, angry flame. 
u Why can’t she keep it from these fools ? ” was his 
thought. He didn’t even thank her for showing him 
the chair. 

She flushed vividly, but smiled back. She was so 
proud and happy she didn’t care very much if they did 
know it. But as Will looked at her with that quick, 
angry glance, she was hurt and puzzled. She redoubled 
her exertions to please him, and by so doing added to 
the amusement of the crowd that gnawed chicken-bones, 
rattled cups, knives, and forks, and joked as they ate 
with small grace and no material loss of time. 


A Branch Road 


1 9 


Will remained silent through it all, eating his potato, 
in marked contrast to the others, with his fork instead 
of his knife, and drinking his tea from his cup rather 
than from his saucer — “ finnickies ” which did not 
escape the notice of the girl nor the sharp eyes of the 
workmen. 

M See that ? That’s the way we do down to the 
Sem ! See ? Fork for pie in yer right hand ! Hey ? 
/ can’t do it ? Watch me ! ” 

When Agnes leaned over to say, “Won’t you have 
some more tea, Will ? ” they nudged each other and 
grinned. “Aha ! What did I tell you ? ” 

Agnes saw at last that for some reason Will didn’t 
want her to show her regard for him — that he was 
ashamed of it in some way, and she was wounded. To 
cover it up, she resorted to the natural device of smiling 
and chatting with the others. She asked Ed if he 
wouldn’t have another piece of pie. 

“ I will — with a fork, please.” 

“ This is ’bout the only place you can use a fork,” said 
Bill Young, anticipating a laugh by his own broad grin. 

“ Oh, that’s too old,” said Shep Watson. “ Don’t 
drag that out agin. A man that’ll eat seven taters — ” 

“ Shows who does the work.” 

“Yes, with his jaws,” put in Jim Wheelock, the 
driver. 

“If you’d put in a little more work with soap ’n water 
before cornin’ in to dinner, it ’ud be a religious idee,” 
said David. 

“ It ain’t healthy to wash.” 


20 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Well, you’ll live forever, then.” 

cc He ain’t washed his face sence I knew ’im.” 

u Oh, that’s a little too tough ! He washes once a 
week,” said Ed Kinney. 

“ Back of his ears ? ” inquired David, who was 
munching a doughnut, his black eyes twinkling with 
fun. 

“ Yep.” 

w What’s the cause of it ? ” 

“ Dade says she won’t kiss ’im if he don’t.” 

Everybody roared. 

u Good fer Dade ! I wouldn’t if I was in her place.” 

Wheelock gripped a chicken-leg imperturbably, and 
left it bare as a toothpick with one or two bites at it. 
His face shone in two clean sections around his nose 
and mouth. Behind his ears the dirt lay undisturbed. 
The grease on his hands could not be washed off. 

Will began to suffer now because Agnes treated the 
other fellows too well. With a lover’s exacting jeal- 
ousy, he wanted her in some way to hide their tender- 
ness from the rest, and also to show her indifference to 
men like Young and Kinney. He didn’t stop to in- 
quire of himself the justice of such a demand, nor just 
how it was to be done. He only insisted she ought to 
do it. 

He rose and left the table at the end of his dinner 
without having spoken to her, without even a tender, 
significant glance, and he knew, too, that she was 
troubled and hurt. But he was suffering. It seemed 
as if he had lost something sweet, lost it irrecoverably. 


A Branch Road 


21 


He noticed Ed Kinney and Bill Young were the last 
to come out, just before the machine started up again 
after dinner, and he saw them pause outside the thresh- 
old and laugh back at Agnes standing in the doorway. 
Why couldn’t she keep those fellows at a distance, not 
go out of her way to bandy jokes with them ? 

In some way the elation of the morning was gone. 
He worked on doggedly now, without looking up, with- 
out listening to the leaves, without seeing the sunlighted 
clouds. Of course he didn’t think that she meant any- 
thing by it, but it irritated him and made him unhappy. 
She gave herself too freely. 

Toward the middle of the afternoon the machine 
stopped for some repairing ; and while Will lay on his 
stack in the bright yellow sunshine, shelling wheat in his 
hands and listening to the wind in the oaks, he heard 
his name and her name mentioned on the other side 
of the machine, where the measuring-box stood. He 
listened. 

u She’s pretty sweet on him, ain’t she ? Did yeh 
notus how she stood around over him ? ” 

cc Yes ; an’ did yeh see him when she passed the cup 
o’ tea down over his shoulder ? ” 

Will got up, white with wrath, as they laughed. 
u Someway he didn’t seem to enjoy it as I would. I 
wish she’d reach her arm over my neck that way.” 

Will walked around the machine, and came on the 
group lying on the chaff near the straw-pile. 

u Say, I want you fellers to understand that I won’t 
have any more of this talk. I won’t have it.” 


22 Main -Travelled Roads 

There was a dead silence. Then Bill Young got 
up. 

“ What yeh goin’ to do about ut ? ” he sneered. 

u I’m going to stop it.” 

The wolf rose in Young. He moved forward, his 
ferocious soul flaming from his eyes. 

“ W’y, you damned seminary dude, I can break you 
in two ! ” 

An answering glare came into Will’s eyes. He 
grasped and slightly shook his fork, which he had 
brought with him unconsciously. 

“ If you make one motion at me, I’ll smash your head 
like an egg-shell ! ” His voice was low but terrific. 
There was a tone in it that made his own blood stop in 
his veins. “ If you think I’m going to roll around on 
this ground with a hyena like you, you’ve mistaken your 
man. I’ll kill you, but I won’t fight with such men as 
you are.” 

Bill quailed and slunk away, muttering some epithet 
like u coward.” 

w I don’t care what you call me , but just remember 
what I say : you keep your tongue off that girl’s 
affairs.” 

“ That’s the talk,” said David. u Stand up for your 
girl always, but don’t use a fork. You can handle him 
without that.” 

u I don’t propose to try,” said Will, as he turned 
away. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Ed Kinney 
at the well, pumping a pail of water for Agnes, who 
stood beside him, the sun on her beautiful yellow hair. 


A Branch Road 


2 3 

She was laughing at something Ed was saying as he 
slowly moved the handle up and down. 

Instantly, like a foaming, turbid flood, his rage swept 
out toward her. “ It’s all her fault,” he thought, grind- 
ing his teeth. “ She’s a fool. If she’d hold herself in, 
like other girls ! But no ; she must smile and smile at 
everybody.” It was a beautiful picture, but it sent a 
shiver through him. 

He worked on with teeth set, white with rage. He 
had an impulse that would have made him assault her 
with words as with a knife. He was possessed of a 
terrible passion which was hitherto latent in him, and 
which he now felt to be his worst self. But he was 
powerless to exorcise it. His set teeth ached with the 
stress of his muscular tension, and his eyes smarted with 
the strain. 

He had always prided himself on being cool, calm, 
above these absurd quarrels which his companions had 
indulged in. He didn’t suppose he could be so moved. 
As he worked on, his rage settled into a sort of stubborn 
bitterness — stubborn bitterness of conflict between this 
evil nature and his usual self. It was the instinct of 
possession, the organic feeling of proprietorship of a 
woman, which rose to the surface and mastered him. 
He was not a self-analyst, of course, being young, though 
he was more introspective than the ordinary farmer. 

He had a great deal of time to think it over as he 
worked on there, pitching the heavy bundles, but still 
he did not get rid of the miserable desire to punish 
Agnes ; and when she came out, looking very pretty in 


24 


Main -Travelled Roads 


her straw hat, and came around near his stack, he knew 
she came to see him, to have an explanation, a smile; 
and yet he worked away with his hat pulled over his 
eyes, hardly noticing her. 

Ed went over to the edge of the stack and chatted 
with her; and she — poor girl! — feeling Will’s neg- 
lect, could only put a good face on the matter, and show 
that she didn’t mind it, by laughing back at Ed. 

All this Will saw, though he didn’t appear to be look- 
ing. And when Jim Wheelock — Dirty Jim — with 
his whip in his hand, came up and playfully pretended 
to pour oil on her hair, and she laughingly struck at him 
with a handful of straw, Will wouldn’t have looked at 
her if she had called him by name. 

She looked so bright and charming in her snowy apron 
and her boy’s straw hat tipped jauntily over one pink 
ear, that David and Steve and Bill, and even Shep, found 
a way to get a word with her, and the poor fellows in 
the high straw-pile looked their disappointment and shook 
their forks in mock rage at the lucky dogs on the ground. 
But Will worked on like a fiend, while the dapples of 
light and shade fell on the bright face of the merry girl. 

To save his soul from hell-flames he couldn’t have 
gone over there and smiled at her. It was impossible. 
A wall of bronze seemed to have arisen between them. 
Yesterday — last night — seemed a dream. The clasp 
of her hands at his neck, the touch of her lips, were like 
the caresses of an ideal in some revery long ago. 

As night drew on the men worked with a steadier, 
more mechanical action. No one spoke now. Each 


A Branch Road 


25 


man was intent on his work. No one had any strength 
or breath to waste. The driver on his power, changed 
his weight on weary feet and whistled and sang at the 
tired horses. The feeder, his face gray with dust, rolled 
the grain into the cylinder so evenly, so steadily, so 
swiftly that it ran on with a sullen, booming roar. Far 
up on the straw-pile the stackers worked with the steady, 
rhythmic action of men rowing a boat, their figures loom- 
ing vague and dim in the flying dust and chafF, outlined 
against the glorious yellow and orange-tinted clouds. 

“ Phe-e-eew-^,” whistled the driver with the sweet, 
cheery, rising notes of a bird. “ Chk , chk , chk ! Phe- 
e-eew-e ! Go on there, boys ! Chk, chk , chk ! Step 
up there, Dan, step up ! ( Snap /) Phe-e-eew-ee ! 

G’-wan — g’-wan, g’-wan ! Chk , chk , chk ! Wheest, 
wheest, wheest ! Chk , chk ! ” 

In the house the women were setting the table for 
supper. The sun had gone down behind the oaks, 
flinging glorious rose-color and orange shadows along 
the edges of the slate-blue clouds. Agnes stopped her 
work at the kitchen window to look up at the sky, and 
cry silently. u What was the matter with Will ? ” 
She felt a sort of distrust of him now. She thought she 
knew him so well, but now he was so strange. 

“ Come, Aggie,” said Mrs. Dingman, u they’re gettin’ 
’most down to the bottom of the stack. They’ll be pilin’ 
in here soon.” 

u Phe-e-eew-ee ! G’-wan, Doll ! G’-wan, boys ! 
Chk , chk , chk ! Phe-e-eew-ee ! ” called the driver out 
in the dusk, cheerily swinging the whip over the horses’ 


26 


Main -Travelled Roads 


backs. Boom-oo-oo-oom ! roared the machine, with a muf- 
fled, monotonous, solemn tone. cc G’-wan, boys ! 
G’-wan, g’-wan ! ” 

Will had worked unceasingly all day. His muscles 
ached with fatigue. His hands trembled. He clenched 
his teeth, however, and worked on, determined not to 
yield. He wanted them to understand that he could do 
as much pitching as any of them, and read Caesar’s Com- 
mentaries beside. It seemed as if each bundle were 
the last he could raise. The sinews of his wrist pained 
him so; they seemed swollen to twice their natural size. 
But still he worked on grimly, while the dusk fell and 
the air grew chill. 

At last the bottom bundle was pitched up, and he got 
down on his knees to help scrape the loose wheat into 
baskets. What a sweet relief it was to kneel down, to 
release the fork, and let the worn and cramping muscles 
settle into rest ! A new note came into the driver’s 
voice, a soothing tone, full of kindness and admiration 
for the work his teams had done. 

“ Wo-o-o, lads ! Stiddy-y-y, boys ! Wo-o-o, there, 
Dan. Stiddy, stiddy, old man ! Ho , there ! ” The cyl- 
inder took on a lower key, with short, rising yells, as it 
ran empty for a moment. The horses had been going 
so long that they came to a stop reluctantly. At last 
David called, “Turn out ! ” The men seized the ends 
of the sweep, David uncoupled the tumbling-rods, and 
Shep slowly shoved a sheaf of grain into the cylinder, 
choking it into silence. 

The stillness and the dusk were very impressive. So 


A Branch Road 


27 


long had the bell-metal cog-wheel sung its deafening 
song into his ear that, as he walked away into the dusk, 
Will had a weird feeling of being suddenly deaf, and his 
legs were so numb that he could hardly feel the earth. 
He stumbled away like a man paralyzed. 

He took out his handkerchief, wiped the dust from 
his face as best he could, shook his coat, dusted his 
shoulders with a grain-sack, and was starting away, 
when Mr. Dingman, a rather feeble, elderly man, came 
up. 

“ Come, Will, supper’s all ready. Go in and eat.” 

u I guess I’ll go home to supper.” 

u Oh, no 5 that won’t do. The women’ll be expect- 
ing you to stay.” 

The men were laughing at the well, the warm yellow 
light shone from the kitchen, the chill air making it seem 
very inviting, and she was there — waiting ! But the 
demon rose in him. He knew Agnes would expect 
him, and she would cry that night with disappointment, 
but his face hardened. “ I guess I’ll go home,” he said, 
and his tone was relentless. He turned and walked 
away, hungry, tired — so tired he stumbled, and so un- 
happy he could have wept. 


II 

On Thursday the county fair was to be held. The 
fair is one of the gala-days of the year in the country 
districts of the West, and one of the times when the 
country lover rises above expense to the extravagance 


28 


Main -Travelled Roads 


of hiring a top-buggy, in which to take his sweetheart 
to the neighboring town. 

It was customary to prepare for this long beforehand, 
for the demand for top-buggies was so great the livery- 
men grew dictatorial, and took no chances. Slowly but 
surely the country beaux began to compete with the 
clerks, and in many cases actually outbid them, as they 
furnished their own horses and could bid higher, in con- 
sequence, on the carriages. 

Will had secured his brother’s “rig,” and early on 
Thursday morning he was at work, busily washing the 
mud from the carriage, dusting the cushions, and polish- 
ing up the buckles and rosettes on his horses’ harnesses. 
It was a beautiful, crisp, clear dawn — the ideal day for 
a ride ; and Will was singing as he worked. He had 
regained his real self, and, having passed through a bitter 
period of shame, was now joyous with anticipation of 
forgiveness. He looked forward to the day, with its 
chances of doing a thousand little things to show his 
regret and his love. 

He had not seen Agnes since Monday; Tuesday he 
did not go back to help thresh, and Wednesday he had 
been obliged to go to town to see about board for the 
coming term ; but he felt sure of her. It had all been 
arranged the Sunday before ; she’d expect him, and he 
was to call at eight o’clock. 

He polished up the colts with merry tick-tack of the 
brush and comb, and after the last stroke on their shin- 
ing limbs, threw his tools in the box and went to the 
house. 


A Branch Road 


29 

“ Pretty sharp last night,” said his brother John, who 
was scrubbing his face at the cistern. 

“ Should say so by that rim of ice,” Will replied, dip- 
ping his hands into the icy water. 

“ I ought ’o stay home to-day and dig ’tates,” con- 
tinued the older man, thoughtfully, as they went into 
the woodshed and wiped consecutively on the long 
roller-towel. “Some o’ them Early Rose lay right on 
top o’ the ground. They’ll get nipped, sure.” 

“ Oh, I guess not. You’d better go, Jack ; you don’t 
get away very often. And then it would disappoint 
Nettie and the children so. Their little hearts are 
overflowing,” he ended, as the door opened and two 
sturdy little boys rushed out. 

“ B’ekfuss, poppa ; all yeady ! ” 

The kitchen table was set near the stove 5 the window 
let in the sun, and the smell of sizzling sausages and 
the aroma of coffee filled the room. 

The kettle was doing its duty cheerily, and the wife, 
with flushed face and smiling eyes, was hurrying to and 
fro, her heart full of anticipation of the day’s outing. 

There was a hilarity almost like some strange intoxi- 
cation on the part of the two children. They danced 
and chattered and clapped their chubby brown hands 
and ran to the windows ceaselessly. 

“ Is yuncle Will goin’ yide nour buggy ? ” 

tc Yus ; the buggy and the colts.” 

u Is he goin’ to take his girl ? ” 

Will blushed a little and John roared. 

“Yes, I’m goin’ — ” 


30 


Main -Travelled Roads 


w Is Aggie your girl ? ” 

“ H’yer ! h’yer! young man,” called John, “you’re 
gettin’ personal.” 

“ Well, set up ! ” said Nettie, and with a good deal 
of clatter they drew around the cheerful table. 

Will had already begun to see the pathos, the pitiful 
significance of his great joy over a day’s outing, and he 
took himself a little to task at his own selfish freedom. 
He resolved to stay at home some time and let Nettie 
go in his place. A few hours in the middle of the day 
on Sunday, three or four holidays in summer ; the rest 
of the year, for this cheerful little wife and her patient 
husband, was made up of work — work which accom- 
plished little and brought them almost nothing that was 
beautiful. 

While they were eating breakfast, teams began to 
clatter by, huge lumber-wagons with three seats across, 
and a boy or two jouncing up and down with the dinner 
baskets near the end-gate. The children rushed to the 
window each time to announce who it was and how 
many there were in. 

But as Johnny said u firteen ” each time, and Ned 
wavered between “ seven ” and u sixteen,” it was doubt- 
ful if they could be relied upon. Thev had very little 
appetite, so keen was their anticipation of the ride and 
the wonderful sights before them. Their little hearts 
shuddered with joy at every fresh token of preparation 
— a joy that made Will say, “ Poor little men ! ” 

They vibrated between the house and the barn while 
the chores were being finished, and their happy cries 


A Branch Road 


3i 


started the young roosters into a renewed season of 
crowing. And when at last the wagon was brought 
out and the horses hitched to it, they danced like mad 
sprites. 

After they had driven away, Will brought out the 
colts, hitched them in, and drove them to the hitching- 
post. Then he leisurely dressed himself in his best suit, 
blacked his boots with considerable exertion, and at 
about 7.30 o’clock climbed into his carriage and gathered 
up the reins. 

He was quite happy again. The crisp, bracing air, 
the strong pull of the spirited young team, put all 
thought of sorrow behind him. He had planned it all 
out. He would first put his arm round her and kiss 
her — there would not need to be any words to tell her 
how sorry and ashamed he was. She would know ! 

Now, when he was alone and going toward her on a 
beautiful morning, the anger and bitterness of Monday 
fled away, became unreal, and the sweet dream of the 
Sunday parting grew the reality. She was waiting for 
him now. She had on her pretty blue dress, and the 
wide hat that always made her look so arch. He had 
said about eight o’clock. 

The swift team was carrying him along the cross- 
road, which was little travelled, and he was alone with 
his thoughts. He fell again upon his plans. Another 
year at school for them both, and then he’d go into a 
law office. Judge Brown had told him he’d give him — 

“Whoa! Ho!" 

There was a swift lurch that sent him flying over the 


32 


Main -Travelled Roads 


dasher. A confused vision of a roadside ditch full of 
weeds and bushes, and then he felt the reins in his hands 
and heard the snorting horses trample on the hard road. 

He rose dizzy, bruised, and covered with dust. The 
team he held securely and soon quieted. The cause of 
the accident was plain ; the right fore-wheel had come off, 
letting the front of the buggy drop. He unhitched the 
excited team from the carriage, drove them to the fence 
and tied them securely, then went back to find the wheel, 
and the burr whose failure to hold its place had done all 
the mischief. He soon had the wheel on, but to find 
the burr was a harder task. Back and forth he ranged, 
looking, scraping in the dust, searching the weeds. 

He knew that sometimes a wheel will run without 
the burr for many rods before coming off, and so each 
time he extended his search. He traversed the entire 
half mile several times, each time his rage and disappoint- 
ment getting more bitter. He ground his teeth in a 
fever of vexation and dismay. 

He had a vision of Agnes waiting, wondering why he 
did not come. It was this vision that kept him from 
seeing the burr in the wheel-track, partly covered by a 
clod. Once he passed it looking wildly at his watch, 
which was showing nine o’clock. Another time he 
passed it with eyes dimmed with a mist that was almost 
tears of anger. 

There is no contrivance that will replace an axle- 
burr, and farm-yards have no unused axle-burrs, and so 
Will searched. Each moment he said : “ I’ll give it up, 
get onto one of the horses, and go down and tell her.” 


A Branch Road 


33 


But searching for a lost axle-burr is like fishing ; the 
searcher expects each moment to find it. And so he 
groped, and ran breathlessly, furiously, back and forth, 
and at last kicked away the clod that covered it, and 
hurried, hot and dusty, cursing his stupidity, back to the 
team. 

It was ten o’clock as he climbed again into the buggy, 
and started his team on a swift trot down the road. 
What would she think ? He saw her now with tearful 
eyes and pouting lips. She was sitting at the window, 
with hat and gloves on ; the rest had gone, and she was 
waiting for him. 

But she’d know something had happened, because he 
had promised to be there at eight. He had told her 
what team he’d have. (He had forgotten at this mo- 
ment the doubt and distrust he had given her on Mon- 
day.) She’d know he’d surely come. 

But there was no smiling or tearful face watching at 
the window as he came down the lane at a tearing pace, 
and turned into the yard. The house was silent, and 
the curtains down. The silence sent a chill to his heart. 
Something rose up in his throat to choke him. 

u Agnes ! ” he called. w Hello ! I’m here at last ! ” 
There was no reply. As he sat there the part he had 
played on Monday came back to him. She may be 
sick ! he thought, with a cold thrill of fear. 

An old man came round the corner of the house with 
* potato fork in his hands, his teeth displayed in a grin. 
u She ain’t here. She’s gone.” 

“ Gone!” 

D 


34 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Yes — more’n an hour ago.” 

“ Who’d she go with ? ” 

“ Ed Kinney,” said the old fellow, .with a malicious 
grin. “I guess your goose is cooked.” 

Will lashed the horses into a run, and swung round 
the yard and out of the gate. His face was white as a 
dead man’s, and his teeth were set like a vice. He 
glared straight ahead. The team ran wildly, steadily 
homeward, while their driver guided them unconsciously 
without seeing them. His mind was filled with a tem- 
pest of rages, despairs, and shames. 

That ride he will never forget. In it he threw away 
all his plans. He gave up his year’s schooling. He 
gave up his law aspirations. He deserted his brother 
and his friends. In the dizzying whirl of passions he 
had only one clear idea — to get away, to go West, to 
escape from the sneers and laughter of his neighbors, and 
to make her suffer by it all. 

He drove into the yard, did not stop to unharness the 
team, but rushed into the house, and began packing his 
trunk. His plan was formed. He would drive to Cedar- 
ville, and hire some one to bring the team back. He 
had no thought of anything but the shame, the insult, 
she had put upon him. Her action on Monday took on 
the same levity it wore then, and excited him in the 
same way. He saw her laughing with Ed over his dis- 
may. He sat down and wrote a letter to her at last — 
a letter that came from the ferocity of the mediaeval 
savage in him : 

w If you want to go to hell with Ed Kinney, you can. 


A Branch Road 


35 

I won’t say a word. That’s where he’ll take you. You 
won’t see me again.” 

This he signed and sealed, and then he bowed his 
head and wept like a girl. But his tears did not soften 
the effect of the letter. It went as straight to its mark 
as he meant it should. It tore a seared and ragged path 
to an innocent, happy heart, and he took a savage pleas- 
ure in the thought of it as he rode away in the cars 
toward the South. 


Ill 

The seven years lying between 1880 and 1887 made 
a great change in Rock River and in the adjacent farm- 
ing land. Signs changed and firms went out of business 
with characteristic Western ease of shift. The trees 
grew rapidly, dwarfing the houses beneath them, and 
contrasts of newness and decay thickened. 

Will found the country changed, as he walked along 
the dusty road from Rock River toward w The Corners.” 
The landscape was at its fairest and liberalest, with its 
seas of corn, deep-green and moving with a mournful 
rustle, in sharp contrast to its flashing blades ; its gleam- 
ing fields of barley, and its wheat already mottled with 
soft gold in the midst of its pea-green. 

The changes were in the hedges, grown higher, in the 
greater predominance of cornfields and cattle pastures, 
and especially in the destruction of homes. As he 
passed on, Will saw the grass growing and cattle feed- 
ing on a dozen places where homes had once stood. 


36 


Main -Travelled Roads 


They had given place to the large farm and the stock- 
raiser. Still the whole scene was bountiful and beautiful 
to the eye. 

It was especially grateful to Will, for he had spent 
nearly all his years of absence among the rocks, treeless 
swells, and bleak cliffs of the Southwest. The crickets 
rising before his dusty feet appeared to him something 
sweet and suggestive, and the cattle feeding in the clover 
moved him to deep thought — they were so peaceful and 
slow motioned. 

As he reached a little popple tree by the roadside, he 
stopped, removed his broad-brimmed hat, put his elbows 
on the fence, and looked hungrily upon the scene. The 
sky was deeply blue, with only here and there a huge, 
heavy, slow-moving, massive, sharply outlined cloud sail- 
ing like a berg of ice in a shoreless sea of azure. 

In the fields the men were harvesting the ripened oats 
and barley, and the sound of their machines clattering, 
now low, now loud, came to his ears. Flies buzzed 
near him, and a kingbird clattered overhead. He noticed 
again, as he had many a time when a boy, that the soft- 
ened sound of the far-off reaper was at times exactly 
like the hum of a bluebottle fly buzzing heedlessly 
about his ears. 

A slender and very handsome young man was shock- 
ing grain near the fence, working so desperately he did 
not see Will until greeted by him. He looked up, 
replied to the greeting, but kept on until he had finished 
his last stook; then he came to the shade of the tree 
and took off his hat. 


A Branch Road 


37 


“Nice day to sit under a tree and fish.” 

Will smiled. U I ought to know you, I suppose; I 
used to live here years ago.” 

“ Guess not ; we came in three years ago.” 

The young man was quick-spoken and pleasant to 
look at. Will felt freer with him. 

“ Are the Kinneys still living over there ? ” He 
nodded at a group of large buildings. 

“Tom lives there. Old man lives with Ed. Tom 
ousted the old man some way, nobody seems to know 
how, and so he lives with Ed.” 

Will wanted to ask after Agnes, but hardly felt able. 
“ I s’pose John Hannan is on his old farm ? ” 

“Yes. Got a good crop this year.” 

Will looked again at the fields of rustling wheat over 
which the clouds rippled, and said with an air of con- 
viction : “ This lays over Arizony, dead sure.” 

“You’re from Arizony, then ? ” 

“Yes — a good ways from it,” Will replied, in a 
way that stopped further question. “ Good luck ! ” he 
added, as he walked on down the road toward the creek, 
musing. 

“ And the spring — I wonder if that’s there yet. I’d 
like a drink.” The sun seemed hotter than at noon, 
and he walked slowly. At the bridge that spanned the 
meadow brook, just where it widened over a sandy ford, 
he paused again. He hung over the rail and looked at 
the minnows swimming there. 

“ I wonder if they’re the same identical chaps that 
used to boil and glitter there when I was a boy — looks 


Main -Travelled Roads 


38 

so. Men change from one generation to another, but 
the fish remain the same. The same eternal procession 
of types. I suppose Darwin ’ud say their environment 
remains the same.” 

He hung for a long time over the railing, thinking 
of a vast number of things, mostly vague, flitting things, 
looking into the clear depths of the brook, and listening 
to the delicious liquid note of a blackbird swinging on 
the willow. Red lilies starred the grass with fire, and 
golden-rod and chicory grew everywhere ; purple and 
orange and yellow-green the prevailing tints. 

Suddenly a water-snake wriggled across the dark pool 
above the ford and the minnows disappeared under the 
shadow of the bridge. Then Will sighed, lifted his 
head and walked on. There seemed to be something 
prophetic in it, and he drew a long breath. That’s the 
way his plans broke and faded away. 

Human life does not move with the regularity of a 
clock. In living there are gaps and silences when the 
soul stands still in its flight through abysses — and there 
come times of trial and times of struggle when we grow 
old without knowing it. Body and soul change appal- 
lingly. 

Seven years of hard, busy life had made changes in 
Will. 

His face had grown bold, resolute, and rugged ; some 
of its delicacy and all of its boyish quality was gone. 
His figure was stouter, erect as of old, but less graceful. 
He bore himself like a man accustomed to look out 
for himself in all kinds of places. It was only at times 


A Branch Road 


39 

that there came into his deep eyes a preoccupied, almost 
sad, look which showed kinship with his old self. . 

This look was on his face as he walked toward the 
clump of trees on the right of the road. 

He reached the grove of popple trees and made his 
way at once to the spring. When he saw it, he was 
again shocked. They had allowed it to fill with leaves 
and dirt ! 

Overcome by the memories of the past, he flung 
himself down on the cool and shadowy bank, and gave 
himself up to the bitter-sweet reveries of a man returning 
to his boyhood’s home. He was filled somehow with 
a strange and powerful feeling of the passage of time ; 
with a vague feeling of the mystery and elusiveness of 
human life. The leaves whispered it overhead, the 
birds sang it in chorus with the insects, and far above, 
in the measureless spaces of sky, the hawk told it in 
the silence and majesty of his flight from cloud to 
cloud. 

It was a feeling hardly to be expressed in words — 
one of those emotions whose springs lie far back in 
the brain. He lay so still the chipmunks came curi- 
ously up to his very feet, only to scurry away when he 
stirred like a sleeper in pain. 

He had cut himself off entirely from the life at The 
Corners. He had sent money home to John, but had 
concealed his own address carefully. The enormity of 
his folly now came back to him, racking him till he 
groaned. 

He heard the patter of feet and half-mumbled mono- 


4 o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


logue of a running child. He roused up and faced a 
small boy, who started back in terror like a wild fawn. 
He was deeply surprised to find a man there, where 
only boys and squirrels now came. He stuck his fist 
in his eye, and was backing away when Will spoke. 

u Hold on, sonny ! Nobody’s hit you. Come, I 
ain’t goin’ to eat yeh.” He took a bit of money from 
his pocket. “ Come here and tell me your name. I 
want to talk with you.” 

The boy crept upon the dime. 

Will smiled. w You ought to be a Kinney. What 
is your name ? ” 

“Tomath Dickinthon Kinney. I’m thix and a half. 
I’ve got a colt,” lisped the youngster, breathlessly, as he 
crept toward the money. 

u Oh, you are, eh ? Well, now. are you Tom’s boy, 
or Ed’s ? ” 

u Tomth’s boy. Uncle Ed heth got a little — ” 

“ Ed got a boy ? ” 

u Yeth, thir — a lil baby. Aunt Agg letth me hold 
’im.” 

“ Agg ! Is that her name ? ” 

u Tha’th what Uncle Ed callth her.” 

The man’s head fell, and it was a long time before he 
asked his next question. 

w How is she anyhow ? ” 

“ Purty well,” piped the boy, with a prolongation of 
the last words into a kind of chirp. “ She’th been thick, 
though,” he added. 

“ Been sick ? How long ? ” 


A Branch Road 


4i 


“ Oh, a long time. But she ain’t thick abed ; she’th 
awful poor, though. Gran’pa thayth she’th poor ath a 
rake.” 

“ Oh, he does, eh ? ” 

“ Yeth, thir. Uncle Ed he jawth her, then she crieth.” 

Will’s anger and remorse broke out in a groaning 
curse. w O my God ! I see it all. That great lunkin 
houn’ has made life a hell for her.” Then that letter 
came back to his mind — he had never been able to put 
it out of his mind — he never would till he saw her and 
asked her pardon. 

u Here, my boy, I want you to tell me some more. 
Where does your Aunt Agnes live ? ” 

“At gran’pa’th. You know where my gran’pa 
livth ? ” 

“ Well, you do. Now I want you to take this letter 
to her. Give it to her” He wrote a little note and 
folded it. w Now dust out o’ here.” 

The boy slipped away through the trees like a rabbit ; 
his little brown feet hardly rustled. He was like some 
little wood-animal. Left alone, the man fell back into 
a revery which lasted till the shadows fell on the thick 
little grove around the spring. He rose at last, and tak- 
ing his stick in hand, walked out to the wood again and 
stood there gazing at the sky. He seemed loath to go 
farther. The sky was full of flame-colored clouds float- 
ing in a yellow-green sea, where bars of faint pink 
streamed broadly away. 

As he stood there, feeling the wind lift his hair, listen- 
ing to the crickets’ ever-present crying, and facing the 


42 


Main -Travelled Roads 


majesty of space, a strange sadness and despair came into 
his eyes. 

Drawing a quick breath, he leaped the fence and was 
about going on up the road, when he heard, at a little 
distance, the sound of a drove of cattle approaching, and 
he stood aside to allow them to pass. They snuffed and 
shied at the silent figure by the fence, and hurried by 
with snapping heels — a peculiar sound that made Will 
smile with pleasure. 

An old man was driving the cows, crying out : 

“ St — boy , there ! Go on there ! Whay, boss ! ” 
Will knew that hard-featured, wiry old man, now 
entering his second childhood and beginning to limp 
painfully. He had his hands full of hard clods which he 
threw impatiently at the lumbering animals. 
u Good-evening, uncle ! ” 
u I ain’t y’r uncle, young man.” 

His dim eyes did not recognize the boy he had chased 
out of his plum patch years before. 

u I don’t know yeh, neither,” he added. 

“ Oh, you will, later on. I’m from the East. I’m a 
sort of a relative to John Hannan.” 

“ I want ’o know if y’ be ! ” the old man exclaimed, 
peering closer. 

“ Yes. I’m just up from Rock River. John’s har- 
vesting, I s’pose ? ” 
w Yus.” 

“ Where’s the youngest one — Will ? ” 

“ William ? Oh ! he’s a bad aig — he lit out Pr the 
West somewhere. He was a hard boy. He stole a 


A Branch Road 


43 


hatful o’ my plums once. He left home kind o’ sudden. 
He ! he ! I s’pose he was purty well cut up jest about 
them days.” 

“ How's that ? ” 

The old man chuckled. 

“ Well, y’ see, they was both courtin’ Agnes then, an’ 
my son cut William out. Then William he lit out f’r 
the West, Arizony, ’r California, ’r somewhere out West. 
Never been back sence.” 

“ Ain’t, heh ? ” 

u No. But they say he’s makin’ a terrible lot o’ 
money,” the old man said in a hushed voice. “ But the 
way he makes it is awful scaly. I tell my wife if I 
had a son like that an’ he’d send me home a bushel- 
basket o’ money, earnt like that, I wouldn’t touch a 
finger to it — no sir ! ” 

“ You would’nt ? Why ? ” 

“’Cause it ain’t right. It ain’t made right noway, 
you — 

w But how is it made ? What’s the feller’s trade ? ” 

“ He’s a gambler — that’s his trade ! He plays cards, 
and every cent is bloody. I wouldn’t touch such money 
nohow you could fix it.” 

“ Wouldn’t, heh ? ” The young man straightened up. 
“Well, look-a-here, old man: did you ever hear of a 
man foreclosing a mortgage on a widow and two boys, 
getting a farm Pr one quarter what it was really worth ? 
You damned old hypocrite ! I know all about you and 
your whole tribe — you old blood-sucker ! ” 

The old man’s jaw fell ; he began to back away. 


44 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Your neighbors tell some good stories about you. 
Now skip along after those cows, or I’ll tickle your old 
legs for you ! ” 

The old man, appalled and dazed at this sudden change 
of manner, backed away, and at last turned and racked off 
up the road, looking back with a wild face, at which the 
young man laughed remorselessly. 

“ The doggoned old skeesucks ! ” Will soliloquized 
as he walked up the road. “So that’s the kind of a 
character he’s been givin’ me ! ” 

cc Hullo ! A whippoorwill. Takes a man back into 
childhood — No, don't c whip poor Will he’s got all he 
can bear now.” 

He came at last to the little farm Dingman had owned, 
and he stopped in sorrowful surprise. The barn had 
been moved away, the garden ploughed up, and the house, 
turned into a granary, stood with boards nailed across its 
dusty, cobwebbed windows. The tears started into the 
man’s eyes ; he stood staring at it silently. 

In the face of this house the seven years that he had 
last lived stretched away into a wild waste of time. It 
stood as a symbol of his wasted, ruined life. It was 
personal, intimately personal, this decay of her home. 

All that last scene came back to him ; the booming 
roar of the threshing-machine, the cheery whistle of the 
driver, the loud, merry shouts of the men. He remem- 
bered how warmly the lamp-light streamed out of that 
door as he turned away tired, hungry, sullen with rage 
and jealousy. Oh, if he had only had the courage of a 
man ! 


A Branch Road 


45 


Then he thought of the boy’s words. She was sick, 
Ed abused her. She had met her punishment. A hun- 
dred times he had been over the whole scene. A thou- 
sand times he had seen her at the pump smiling at Ed 
Kinney, the sun lighting her hair ; and he never thought 
of that without hardening. 

At this very gate he had driven up that last forenoon ; 
to find that she had gone with Ed. He had lived that 
sickening, depressing moment over many times, but not 
times enough to keep down the bitter passion he had 
felt then, and felt now as he went over it in detail. 

He was so happy and confident that morning, so 
perfectly certain that all would be made right by a kiss 
and a cheery jest. And now ! Here he stood sick with 
despair and doubt of all the world. He turned away 
from the desolate homestead and walked on. 

“But I’ll see her — just once more. And then — ” 

And again the mighty significance, responsibility of 
life, fell upon him. He felt, as young people seldom do, 
the irrevocableness of living, the determinate, unalter- 
able character of living. He determined to begin to 
live in some new way — just how he could not say. 

IV 

Old man Kinney and his wife were getting their 
Sunday-school lessons with much bickering, when Will 
drove up the next day to the dilapidated gate and hitched 
his team to a leaning-post under the oaks. Will saw 
the old man’s head at the open window, but no one else, 


4 6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


though he looked eagerly for Agnes as he walked up the 
familiar path. There stood the great oak under whose 
shade he had grown to be a man. How close the great 
tree seemed to stand to his heart, someway ! As the 
wind stirred in the leaves, it was like a rustle of greeting. 

In that old house they had all lived, and his mother 
had toiled for thirty years. A sort of prison after all. 
There they were all born, and there his father and his 
little sister had died. And then it passed into old 
Kinney’s hands. 

Walking along up the path he felt a serious weakness 
in his limbs, and he made a pretence of stopping to look 
at a flower-bed containing nothing but weeds. After 
seven years of separation he was about to face once 
more the woman whose life came so near being a part 
of his — Agnes, now a wife and a mother.. 

How would she look? Would her face have that 
old-time peachy bloom, her mouth that peculiar beauti- 
ful curve ? She was large and fair, he recalled, hair 
yellow and shining, eyes blue — 

He roused himself. This was nonsense ! He was 
trembling. He composed himself by looking around 
again. 

“ The old scoundrel has let the weeds choke out the 
flowers and surround the bee-hives. Old man Kinney 
never believed in anything but a petty utility.” 

Will set his teeth, and marched up to the door and 
struck it like a man delivering a challenge. Kinney 
opened the door, and started back in fear when he saw 
who it was. 


A Branch Road 


47 


ct How de do ? How de do ? ” said Will, walking 
in, his eyes fixed on a woman seated beyond, a child in 
her lap. 

Agnes rose, without a word ; a fawn-like, startled 
widening of the eyes, her breath coming quick, and her 
face flushing. They couldn’t speak; they only looked 
at each other an instant, then Will shivered, passed his 
hand over his eyes and sat down. 

There was no one there but the fid people, who were 
looking at him in bewilderment. They did not notice 
any confusion in Agnes’s face. She recovered first. 

a I’m glad to see you back, Whl," she said, rising 
and putting the sleeping child down in a neighboring 
room. As she gave him her hand, he said : 

“ I’m glad to get back, Agnes. I hadn’t ought to 
have gone.” Then he turned to the old people : 

“ I’m Will Hannan. You needn’t be scared, Daddy; 
I was jokin’ last night.” 

u Dew tell ! I want ’o know ! ” exclaimed Granny. 
“ Wal, I never! An 3 you’re my little Willy boy who 
ust ’o be in my class ? Well ! Well ! W’y, pa, 
ain’t he growed tall ! Grew handsome tew. I ust ’o 
think he was a dretful humly boy ; but my sakes, that 
mustache — ” 

“ Wal, he gave me a turrible scare last night. My 
land ! scared me out of a year’s growth,” cackled the 
old man. 

This gave them all a chance to laugh, and the air was 
cleared. It gave Agnes time to recover herself, and to 
be able to meet Will’s eyes. Will himself was power- 


4 8 


Main -Travelled Roads 


fully moved ; his throat swelled and tears came to his 
eyes every time he looked at her. 

She was worn and wasted incredibly. The blue of 
her eyes seemed dimmed and faded by weeping, and the 
old-time scarlet of her lips had been washed away. The 
sinews of her neck showed painfully when she turned 
her head, and her trembling hands were worn, discolored, 
and lumpy at the joints. 

Poor girl ! She knew she was under scrutiny, and 
her eyes felt hot and restless. She wished to run away 
and cry, but she dared not. She stayed, while Will be- 
gan to tell her of his life and to ask questions about old 
friends. 

The old people took it up and relieved her of any share 
in it ; and Will, seeing that she was suffering, told some 
funny stories which made the old people cackle in spite 
of themselves. 

But it was forced merriment on Will’s part. Once 
or twice Agnes smiled, with just a little flash of the 
old-time sunny temper. But there was no dimple in the 
cheek now, and the smile had more suggestion of an in- 
valid — or even a skeleton. He was almost ready to 
take her in his arms and weep, her face appealed so piti- 
fully to him. 

“ It’s most time f’r Ed to be gittin’ back, ain’t it, pa ? ” 

“ Sh’d say ’t was ! He jest went over to Hobkirk’s 
to trade horses. It’s dretful tryin’ to me to have him go 
off' tradin’ horses on Sunday. Seems if he might wait 
till a rainy day, ’r do it evenin’s. I never did believe in 
horse-tradin’ anyhow.” 


A Branch Road 


49 

“ Have y’ come back to stay, Willie ? ” asked the old 
lady. 

“ Well — it’s hard tellin’,” answered Will, looking at 
Agnes. 

“ Well, Agnes, ain’t you goin’ to git no dinner ? I’m 
’bout ready f r dinner. We must git to church early to- 
day. Elder Wheat is goin’ to preach, an’ they’ll be a 
crowd. He’s goin’ to hold communion.” 

“ You’ll stay to dinner, Will ? ” asked Agnes. 

u Yes — if you wish it.” 

u I do wish it.” 

u Thank you ; I want to have a good visit with you. 
I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” 

As she moved about, getting dinner on the table, Will 
sat with gloomy face, listening to the “ clack ” of the 
old man. The room was a poor little sitting room, with 
furniture worn and shapeless ; hardly a touch of pleas- 
ant color, save here and there a little bit of Agnes’s 
handiwork. The lounge, covered with calico, was rick- 
ety ; the rocking-chair matched it, and the carpet of rags 
was patched and darned with twine in twenty places. 
Everywhere was the influence of the Kinneys. The 
furniture looked like them, in fact. 

Agnes was outwardly calm, but her real distraction 
did not escape Mrs. Kinney’s hawk-like eyes. 

“Well, I declare if you hain’t put the butter on in 
one o’ my blue chainy saucers ? Now you know I don’t 
allow that saucer to be took down by nobody. I don’t 
see what’s got into yeh ! Anybody’d s’pose you never 
see any comp’ny b’fore — wouldn’t they, pa ? ” 

£ 


5 ° 


Main -Travelled Roads 


u Sh’d say th’ would,” said pa, stopping short in a 
long story about Ed. u Seems if we couldn’t keep any- 
thing in this house sep’rit from the rest. Ed he uses my 
curry-comb — ” 

He launched out a long list of grievances, to which 
Will shut his ears as completely as possible, and was 
thinking how to stop him, when there came a sudden 
crash. Agnes had dropped a plate. 

w Good land o’ Goshen ! ” screamed Granny. u If 
you ain’t the worst I ever see. I’ll bet that’s my grape- 
vine plate. If it is — Well, of all the mercies, it ain’t. 
But it might ’a’ ben. I never see your beat — never ! 
That’s the third plate since I came to live here.” 

w Oh, look-a-here, Granny,” said Will, desperately, 
“don’t make so much fuss about the plate. What’s it 
worth, anyway ? Here’s a dollar.” 

Agnes cried quickly: 

“ Oh, don’t do that, Will ! It ain’t her plate. It’s 
my plate, and I can break every plate in the house if I 
want to,” she cried defiantly. 

“ Course you can,” Will agreed. 

“Wal, she can't! Not while I'm around,” put in 
Daddy. “ I’ve helped to pay Pr them plates, if she does 
call ’em her’n — ” 

“ What the devul is all this row about ? Agg, can’t 
you get along without stirring up the old folks every time 
I’m out o’ the house ? ” 

The speaker was Ed, now a tall and slouchily dressed 
man of thirty-two or three ; his face still handsome in a 
certain dark, cleanly-cut style, but he wore a surly look 


A Branch Road 


5 1 

as he lounged in with insolent swagger, clothed in 
greasy overalls and a hickory shirt. 

u Hello, Will ! I heard you’d got home. John told 
me as I came along.” 

They shook hands, and Ed slouched down on the 
lounge. Will could have kicked him for laying the 
blame of the dispute upon Agnes ; it showed him in a 
flash just how he treated her. He disdained to quarrel ; 
he simply silenced and dominated her. 

Will asked a few questions about crops, with such 
grace as he could show, and Ed, with keen eyes fixed on 
Will’s face, talked easily and stridently. 

44 Dinner ready ? ” he asked of Agnes. 44 Where’s 
Pete ? ” 

44 He’s asleep.” 

cc All right. Let ’im sleep. Well, let’s go out an’ 
set up. Come, Dad, sling away that Bible and come to 
grub. Mother, what the devul are you snifflin’ at ? 
Say, now, look here ! If I hear any more about this 
row, I’ll simply let you walk down to meetin’. Come, 
Will, set up.” 

He led the way into the little kitchen where the din- 
ner was set. 

44 What was the row about ? Hain’t been breakin* 
some dish, Agg ? ” 

44 Yes, she has,” broke in the old lady. 

44 One o’ the blue ones ? ” winked Ed. 

44 No, thank goodness, it was a white one.” 

44 Well, now, I’ll git into that dod-gasted cubberd 
some day an’ break the whole eternal outfit. I ain’t 


5 * 


Main -Travelled Roads 


goin’ to have this damned jawin’ goin’ on,” he ended, 
brutally unconscious of his own “jawin’.” 

After this the dinner proceeded in comparative silence, 
Agnes sobbing under breath. The room was small and 
very hot ; the table was warped so badly that the dishes 
had a tendency to slide to the centre; the walls were 
bare plaster, grayed with time ; the food was poor and 
scant, and the flies absolutely swarmed upon everything, 
like bees. Otherwise the room was clean and orderly. 

u They say you’ve made a pile o’ money out West, 
Bill. I’m glad of it. We fellers back here don’t make 
anything. It’s a dam tight squeeze. Agg, it seems to 
me the flies are devilish thick to-day. Can’t you drive 
’em out ? ” 

Agnes felt that she must vindicate herself a little. 
u I do drive ’em out, but they come right in again. 
The screen-door is broken and they come right in.” 
u I told Dad to fix that door.” 
w But he won’t do it for me.” 

Ed rested his elbows on the table and fixed his bright 
black eyes on his father. 

“ Say, what d’ you mean by actin’ like a mule ? I 
swear I’ll trade you off f’r a yaller dog. What do I 
keep you round here for anyway — to look purty ? ” 

“ I guess I’ve as good a right here as you have, Ed 
Kinney.” 

“ Oh, go soak y’r head, old man. If you don’t ’tend 
out here a little better, down goes your meat-house ! I 
won’t drive you down to meetin’ till you promise to fix 
that door. Hear me ! ” 


A Branch Road 


S3 

Daddy began to snivel. Agnes could not look up for 
shame. Will felt sick. Ed laughed. 

u I c’n bring the old man to terms that way ; he can’t 
walk very well late years, an’ he can’t drive my colt. 
You know what a cuss I used to be about fast nags ? 
Well, I’m just the same. Hobkirk’s got a colt I want. 
Say, that reminds me : your team’s out there by the 
fence. I forgot. I’ll go out and put ’em up.” 

u No, never mind ; I can’t stay but a few minutes.” 
u Goin’ to be round the country long ? ” 

<c A week — maybe.” 

Agnes looked up a moment, and then let her eyes 
fall. 

u Goin’ back West, I s’pose ? ” 

“ No. May go East, to Europe, mebbe.” 
u The devul y’ say ! You must ’a’ made a ten-strike 
out West.” 

“ They say it didn’t come lawful,” piped Daddy, over 
his blackberries and milk. 

“ Oh, you shet up, who wants your put-in ? Don’t 
work in any o’ your Bible on us.” 

Daddy rose to go into the other room. 

“ Hold on, old man. You goin’ to fix that door ? ” 
tt Course I be,” quavered he. 

“Well see ’t y’ do, that’s all. Now get on y’r duds, 
an’ I’ll go an’ hitch up.” He rose from the table. 
w Don’t keep me waiting.” 

He went out unceremoniously, and Agnes was alone 
with Will. 

cc Do you go to church ? ” he asked. She shook her 


54 


Main -Travelled Roads 


head. M No, I don’t go anywhere now. I have too 
much to do ; I haven’t strength left. And I’m not fit 
anyway.” 

“ Agnes, I want to say something to you ; not now 
— after they’re gone.” 

He went into the other room, leaving her to wash the 
dinner-things. She worked on in a curious, almost 
dazed way, a dream of something sweet and irrevocable 
in her eyes. Will represented so much to her. His 
voice brought up times and places that thrilled her like 
song. He was associated with all that was sweetest 
and most care-free and most girlish in her life. 

Ever since the boy had handed her that note she had 
been re-living those days. In the midst of her drudgery 
she stopped to dream — to let some picture come back 
into her mind. She was a student again at the Semi- 
nary, and stood in the recitation-room with suffocating 
beat of the heart; Will was waiting outside — waiting 
in a tremor like her own, to walk home with her under 
the maples. 

Then she remembered the painfully sweet mixture of 
pride and fear with which she walked up the aisle of the 
little church behind him. Her pretty new gown rustled, 
the dim light of the church had something like romance 
in it, and he was so strong and handsome. Her heart 
went out in a great silent cry to God — 

w Oh, let me be a girl again ! ” 

She did not look forward to happiness. She hadn’t 
power to look forward at all. 

As she worked, she heard the high, shrill voices of 


A Branch Road 


55 

the old people as they bustled about and nagged at each 
other. 

w Ma, where’s my specticles ? ” 

“ I ain’t seen y’r specticles.” 

u You have, too.” 

u I ain’t neither.” 

“You had ’em this forenoon.” 

“ Didn’t no such thing. Them was my own brass- 
bowed ones. You had your’n jest ’fore goin’ to dinner. 
If you’d put ’em into a proper place you’d find ’em 
again.” 

u I want ’o know if I would,” the old man snorted. 

“ Wal, you’d orter know.” 

“ Oh, you’re awful smart, ain’t yeh ? You never 
have no trouble, and use mine — do yeh ? — an’ lose 
’em so ’t I can’t — ” 

“ And if this is the thing that goes on when I’m here 
it must be hell when visitors are gone,” thought Will. 

“ Willy, ain’t you goin’ to meetin’ ? ” 

u No, not to-day. I want to visit a little with Agnes, 
then I’ve got to drive back to John’s.” 

“Wal, we must be goin’. Don’t you leave them 
dishes Pr me to wash,” she screamed at Agnes as she 
went out the door. cc An’ if we don’t git home by five, 
them caaves orter be fed.” 

As Agnes stood at the door to watch them drive 
away, Will studied her, a smothering ache in his heart 
as he saw how thin and bent and weary she was. In 
his soul he felt that she was a dying woman unless she 
had rest and tender care. 


56 


Main -Travelled Roads 


As she turned, she saw something in his face — a 
pity and an agony of self-accusation — that made her 
weak and white. She sank into a chair, putting her 
hand on her chest, as if she felt a failing of breath. 
Then the blood came back to her face and her eyes 
filled with tears. 

“Don’t — don’t look at me like that,” she said in 
a whisper. His pity hurt her. 

At sight of her sitting there pathetic, abashed, bewil- 
dered, like some gentle animal, Will’s throat contracted 
so that he could not speak. His voice came at last in 
one terrific cry — 

u Oh, Agnes, for God’s sake forgive me 1 ” He 
knelt by her side and put his arm about her shoulders 
and kissed her bowed head. A curious numbness in- 
volved his whole body ; his voice was husky, the tears 
burned in his eyes. His whole soul and body ached 
with his pity and his remorseful, self-accusing wrath. 

“ It was all my fault. Lay it all to me. ... I am 
the one to bear it. . . . Oh, I’ve dreamed a thousand 
times of sayin’ this to you, Aggie ! I thought if I could 
only see you again and ask your forgiveness, I’d — ” 
He ground his teeth together in his assault upon him- 
self. w I threw my life away an’ killed you — that’s 
what I did ! ” 

He rose, and raged up and down the room till he had 
mastered himself. 

“ What did you think I meant that day of the thrash- 
ing ? ” he said, turning suddenly. He spoke of it as if 
it were but a month or two past. 


A Branch Road 


57 


She lifted her head and looked at him in a slow way. 
She seemed to be remembering. The tears lay on her 
hollow cheeks. 

“ I thought you was ashamed of me. I didn’t know 
— why — ” 

He uttered a snarl of self-disgust. 

u You couldn’t know. Nobody could tell what I 
meant. But why didn’t you write ? I was ready to 
come back. I only wanted an excuse — only a line.” 

“ How could I, Will — after your letter ? ” 

He groaned, and turned away. 

u And Will, I — I got mad too. I couldn't write.” 

“ Oh, that letter — I can see every line of it ! F’r 
God’s sake, don’t think of it again ! But I didn’t think, 
even when I wrote that letter, that I’d find you where 
you are. I didn’t think. I hoped, anyhow, Ed Kinney 
wouldn’t — ” 

She stopped him with a startled look in her great 
eyes. 

u Don’t talk about him — it ain’t right. I mean it 
don’t do any good. What could I do, after father died ? 
Mother and I. Besides, I waited three years to hear 
from you, Will.” 

He gave a strange, choking cry. It burst from his 
throat — that terrible thing, a man’s sob of agony. 
She went on, curiously calm now. 

“ Ed was good to me ; and he offered a home, any- 
way, for mother — ” 

u And all the time I was waiting for some line to 
break down my cussed pride, so I could write to you 


Main -Travelled Roads 


58 

and explain. But you did go with Ed to the fair,” he 
ended suddenly, seeking a morsel of justification foi 
himself. 

“Yes. But I waited an’ waited; and I thought you 
was mad at me, so when they came I — no, I didn’t 
really go with Ed. There was a wagon-load of them.” 

u But I started,” he explained, u but the wheel came 
off. I didn’t send word because I thought you’d feel 
sure I’d come. If you’d only trusted me a little more 
— No ! It was all my fault. I acted like a crazy fool. 
I didn’t stop to reason about anything.” 

They sat in silence after these explanations. The 
sound of the snapping wings of the grasshoppers came 
through the windows, and a locust high in a poplar sent 
down his ringing whir. 

“ It can’t be helped now, Will,” Agnes said at last, 
her voice full of the woman’s resignation. u We’ve 
got to bear it.” 

Will straightened up. w Bear it ? ” He paused. 
“ Yes, I s’pose so. If you hadn’t married Ed Kinney ! 
Anybody but him. How did you do it ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” she answered, wearily brushing 
her hair back from her eyes. “ It seemed best when 
I did it — and it can’t be helped now.” There was 
infinite, dull despair and resignation in her voice. 

Will went over to the window. He thought how 
bright and handsome Ed used to be. u After all, it’s no 
wonder you married him. Life pushes us into such 
things.” Suddenly he turned, something resolute and 
imperious in his eyes and voice. 


A Branch Road 


59 


“It can be helped, Aggie,” he said. “Now just 
listen to me. We’ve made an awful mistake. We’ve 
lost seven years o’ life, but that’s no reason why we 
should waste the rest of it. Now hold on ; don’t inter- 
rupt me just yet. I come back thinking just as much 
of you as ever. I’m not going to say a word more 
about Ed ; let the past stay past. Pm going to talk 
about the future.” 

She looked at him in a daze of wonder as he went on. 

“ Now I’ve got some money, I’ve got a third interest 
in a ranch, and I’ve got a standing offer to go back on 
the Santa Fee road as conductor. There is a team 
standing out there. I’d like to make another trip to 
Cedarville — with you — ” 

“ Oh, Will, don’t ! ” she cried ; “ for pity’s sake 
don’t talk — ” 

“Wait ! ” he exclaimed, imperiously. “Now look at 
it. Here you are in hell ! Caged up with two old 
crows picking the life out of you. They’ll kill you — 
I can see it ; your being killed by inches. You can’t go 
anywhere, you can’t have anything. Life is just torture 
for you — ” 

She gave a little moan of anguish and despair, and 
turned her face to her chair-back. Her shoulders shook 
with weeping, but she listened. He went to her and 
stood with his hand on the chair-back. 

His voice trembled and broke. “ There’s just one 
way to get out of this, Agnes. Come with me. He 
don’t care for you ; his whole idea of women is that 
they are created for his pleasure and to keep house. 


6 o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Your whole life is agony. Come ! Don’t cry. There’s 
a chance for life yet.” 

She didn’t speak, but her sobs were less violent ; his 
voice growing stronger reassured her. 

“ I’m going East, maybe to Europe ; and the woman 
who goes with me will have nothing to do but get 
strong and well again. I’ve made you suffer so, I ought 
to spend the rest of my life making you happy. Come ! 
My wife will sit with me on the deck of the steamer 
and see the moon rise, and walk with me by the sea, 
till she gets strong and happy again — till the dimples 
get back into her cheeks. I never will rest till I see 
her eyes laugh again.” 

She rose flushed, wild-eyed, breathing hard with the 
emotion his vibrant voice called up, but she could not 
speak. He put his hand gently upon her shoulder, and 
she sank down again. And he went on with his appeal. 
There was something hypnotic, dominating, in his voice 
and eyes. 

On his part there was no passion of an ignoble sort, 
only a passion of pity and remorse, and a sweet, tender, 
reminiscent love. He did not love the woman before 
him so much as the girl whose ghost she was — the 
woman whose promise she was. He held himself respon- 
sible for it all, and he throbbed with desire to repair the 
ravage he had indirectly caused. There was nothing 
equivocal in his position — nothing to disown. How 
others might look at it, he did not consider, and did not 
care. His impetuous soul was carried to a point where 
nothing came in to mar or divert. 


A Branch Road 


6 1 


w And then after you’re well, after our trip, we’ll 
comeback — to Houston, or somewhere in Texas, and 
I’ll build my wife a house that will make her eyes shine. 
My cattle will give us a good living, and she can have 
a piano and books, and go to the theatre and concerts. 
Come, what do you think of that ? ” 

Then she heard his words beneath his voice somehow, 
and they produced pictures that dazzled her. Luminous 
shadows moved before her eyes, drifting across the gray 
background of her poor, starved, work-weary life. 

As his voice ceased the rosy cloud faded, and she 
realized again the faded, musty little room, the calico- 
covered furniture, and looking down at her own cheap 
and ill-fitting dress, she saw her ugly hands lying there. 
Then she cried out with a gush of tears : 

u Oh, Will, I’m so old and homely now, I ain’t fit to 
go with you now ! Oh, why couldn’t we have married 
then?” 

She was seeing herself as she was then, and so was 
he; but it deepened his resolution. How beautiful she 
used to be ! He seemed to see her there as if she stood 
in perpetual sunlight, with a warm sheen in her hair and 
dimples in her cheeks. 

She saw her thin red wrists, her gaunt and knotted 
hands. There was a pitiful droop in the thin, pale lips, 
and the tears fell slowly from her drooping lashes. He 
went on : 

“Well, it’s no use to cry over what was. We must 
think of what we’re going to do. Don’t worry about 
your looks ; you’ll be the prettiest woman in the country 


62 


Main -Travelled Roads 


when we get back. Don’t wait, Aggie ; make up your 
mind.” 

She hesitated, and was lost. 

u What will people say ? ” 

“ I don’t care what they say,” he flamed out. 
“ They’d say, stay here and be killed by inches. I say 
you’ve had your share of suffering. They’d say — the 
liberal ones — stay and get a divorce ; but how do you 
know we can get one after you’ve been dragged through 
the mud of a trial? We can get one as well in some 
other state. Why should you be worn out at thirty ? 
What right or justice is there in making you bear all 
your life the consequences of our — my schoolboy 
folly?” 

As he went on his argument rose to the level of 
Browning’s philosophy. 

“We can make this experience count for us yet. 
But we mustn’t let a mistake ruin us — it should teach 
us. What right has any one to keep you in a hole ? 
God don’t expect a toad to stay in a stump and starve if 
it can get out. He don’t ask the snakes to suffer as you 
do.” 

She had lost the threads of right and wrong out of her 
hands. She was lost in a maze, but she was not moved 
by passion. Flesh had ceased to stir her ; but there was 
vast power in the new and thrilling words her deliverer 
spoke. He seemed to open a door for her, and through 
it turrets shone and great ships crossed on dim blue 
seas. 

u You can’t live here, Aggie. You’ll die in less than 


A Branch Road 63 

five years. It would kill me to see you die here. Come ! 
It’s suicide.” 

She did not move, save the convulsive motion of her 
breath and the nervous action of her fingers. She stared 
down at a spot in the carpet. She could not face him. 

He grew insistent, a sterner note creeping into his voice. 

u If I leave this time of course you know I’ll never 
come back.” 

Her hoarse breathing, growing quicker each moment, 
was her only reply. 

u I’m done,” he said with a note of angry disappoint- 
ment. He did not give her up, however. “ I’ve told 
you what I’d do for you. Now, if you think — ” 

u Oh, give me time to think, Will ! ” she cried out, 
lifting her face. 

He shook his head. “ No. You might as well 
decide now. It won’t be any easier to-morrow. Come, 
one minute more and I go out o’ that door — unless 
— ” He crossed the room slowly, doubtful himself of 
his desperate last measure. “ My hand is on the knob. 
Shall I open it ? ” 

She stopped breathing ; her fingers closed convulsively 
on the chair. As he opened the door she sprang 

up. 

u Don’t go, Will ! Don’t go, please don’t ! I need 
you here — I — -” 

u That ain’t the question. Are you going with me, 
Agnes ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! I tried to speak before. I trust you, 
Will; you’re — ” 


6 4 


Main -Travelled Roads 


He flung the door open wide. cc See the sunlight out 
there shining on that field o’ wheat ? That’s where I’ll 
take you — out into the sunshine. You shall see it 
shining on the Bay of Naples. Come, get on your hat ; 
don’t take anything more’n you actually need. Leave 
the past behind you — ” 

The woman turned wildly and darted into the little 
bedroom. The man listened. He whistled in surprise 
almost comical. He had forgotten the baby. He could 
hear the mother talking, cooing. 

“ Mommie’s ’ittle pet ! She wasn’t goin’ to leave 
her ’ittle man — no, she wasn’t ! There, there, don’t 
’e cry. Mommie ain’t goin’ away and leave him — 
wicked mommie ain’t — ’ittle treasure ! ” 

She was confused again ; and when she reappeared 
at the door, with the child in her arms, there was a 
wandering look on her face pitiful to see. She tried to 
speak, tried to say, “ Please go, Will.” 

He designedly failed to understand her whisper. He 
stepped forward. “ The baby ! Sure enough. Why, 
certainly ! to the mother belongs the child. Blue eyes, 
thank heaven ! ” 

He put his arm about them both. She obeyed silently. 
There was something irresistible in his frank, clear eyes, 
his sunny smile, his strong brown hand. He slammed 
the door behind them. 

w That closes the door on your sufferings,” he said, 
smiling down at her. “ Good-by to it all.” 

The baby laughed and stretched out its hands toward 
the light. 


A Branch Road 


65 


u Boo, boo ! ” he cried. 

u What’s he talking about ? ” 

She smiled in perfect trust and fearlessness, seeing 
her child’s face beside his own. u He says it’s 
beautiful.” 

u Oh, he does ! I can’t follow his French accent.” 

She smiled again, in spite of herself. Will shuddered 
with a thrill of fear, she was so weak and worn. But 
the sun shone on the dazzling, rustling wheat, the 
fathomless sky, blue as a sea, bent above them — and 
the world lay before them. 




UP THE COOLLY 


“ Keep the main- travelled road up 
the Coolly — it's the second house 
after crossin * the crick'* 

























UP THE COOLLY 


The ride from Milwaukee to the Mississippi is a fine 
ride at any time, superb in summer. To lean back in 
a reclining-chair and whirl away in a breezy July day, 
past lakes, groves of oak, past fields of barley being 
reaped, past hay-fields, where the heavy grass is toppling 
before the swift sickle, is a panorama of delight, a road 
full of delicious surprises, where down a sudden vista 
lakes open, or a distant wooded hill looms darkly blue, 
or swift streams, foaming deep down the solid rock, 
send whiffs of cool breezes in at the window. 

It has majesty, breadth. The farming has nothing 
apparently petty about it. All seems vigorous, youth- 
ful, and prosperous. Mr. Howard McLane in his 
chair let his newspaper fall on his lap, and gazed out 
upon it with dreaming eyes. It had a certain mysteri- 
ous glamour to him ; the lakes were cooler and brighter 
to his eye, the greens fresher, and the grain more golden 
than to any one else, for he was coming back to it all 
after an absence of ten years. It was, besides, his West. 
He still took prkb in being a Western man. 

His mind all day flew ahead of the train to the little 
town, far on toward the Mississippi, where he had spent 
his boyhood and youth. As the train passed the Wis- 
consin River, with its curiously carved cliffs, its cold, 
69 


70 


Main -Travelled Roads 


dark, swift-swirling water eating slowly under cedar- 
clothed banks, Howard began to feel curious little move- 
ments of the heart, like those of a lover nearing his 
sweetheart. 

The hills changed in character, growing more inti- 
mately recognizable. They rose higher as the train left 
the ridge and passed down into the Black River valley, 
and specifically into the La Crosse valley. They ceased 
to have any hint of upheavals of rock, and became 
simply parts of the ancient level left standing after the 
water had practically given up its post-glacial scooping 
action. 

It was about six o’clock as he caught sight of the 
splendid broken line of hills on which his baby eyes had 
looked thirty-five years ago. A few minutes later, and 
the train drew up at the grimy little station set into the 
hillside, and, giving him just time to leap off, plunged 
on again toward the West. Howard felt a ridiculous 
weakness in his legs as he stepped out upon the broiling- 
hot, splintery planks of the station and faced the few 
idlers lounging about. He simply stood and gazed with 
the same intensity and absorption one of the idlers might 
show standing before the Brooklyn Bridge. 

The town caught and held his eyes first. How poor 
and dull and sleepy and squalid it seemed ! The one 
main street ended at the hillside at his left, and stretched 
away to the north, between two rows of the usual vil- 
lage stores, unrelieved by a tree or a touch of beauty. 
An unpaved street, with walled, drab-colored, miserable, 
rotting wooden buildings, with the inevitable battlements ; 


Up the Coolly 71 

the same — only worse and more squalid — was the 
town. 

The same, only more beautiful still, was the majestic 
amphitheatre of green wooded hills that circled the hori- 
zon, and toward which he lifted his eyes. He thrilled 
at the sight. 

u Glorious ! ” he cried involuntarily. 

Accustomed to the White Mountains, to the Alle- 
ghanies, he had wondered if these hills would retain 
their old-time charm. They did. He took off his hat 
to them as he stood there. Richly wooded, with gently 
sloping green sides, rising to massive square or rounded 
tops with dim vistas, they glowed down upon the squat 
little town, gracious, lofty in their greeting, immortal in 
their vivid and delicate beauty. 

He was a goodly figure of a man as he stood there 
beside his valise. Portly, erect, handsomely dressed, 
and with something unusually winning in his brown 
mustache and blue eyes, something scholarly suggested 
by the pinch-nose glasses, something strong in the re- 
pose of the head. He smiled as he saw how unchanged 
was the grouping of the old loafers on the salt-barrels 
and nail-kegs. He recognized most of them — a little 
dirtier, a little more bent, and a little grayer. 

They sat in the same attitudes, spat tobacco with 
the same calm delight, and joked each other, breaking 
into short and sudden fits of laughter, and pounded each 
other on the back, just as when he was a student at the 
La Crosse Seminary and going to and fro daily on the 
train. 


72 


Main -Travelled Roads 


They ruminated on him as he passed, speculating in 
a perfectly audible way upon his business. 

“ Looks like a drummer.” 

“ No, he ain’t no drummer. See them Boston 
glasses ? ” 

“ That’s so. Guess he’s a teacher.” 

u Looks like a moneyed cuss.” 

“ Bos’n, I guess.” 

He knew the one who spoke last — Freeme Cole, a 
man who was the fighting wonder of Howard’s boy- 
hood, now degenerated into a stoop-shouldered, faded, 
garrulous, and quarrelsome old man. Yet there was 
something epic in the old man’s stories, something en- 
thralling in the dramatic power of recital. 

Over by the blacksmith shop the usual game of 
“ quaits ” was in progress, and the drug-clerk on the 
corner was chasing a crony with the squirt-pump with 
which he was about to wash the windows. A few 
teams stood ankle-deep in the mud, tied to the fantasti- 
cally gnawed pine pillars of the wooden awnings. A man 
on a load of hay was “jawing ” with the attendant of the 
platform scales, who stood below, pad and pencil in hand. 

“ Hit ’im ! hit ’im ! Jump off and knock ’im ! ” sug- 
gested a bystander, jovially. 

Howard knew the voice. 

“Talk’s cheap. Takes money to buy whiskey,” he 
said, when the man on the load repeated his threat of 
getting off and whipping the scales-man. 

“You’re William McTurg,” Howard said, coming 
up to him. 


73 


Up the Coolly 

<c I am ? sir,” replied the soft-voiced giant, turning 
and looking down on the stranger, with an amused 
twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He stood as erect 
as an Indian, though his hair and beard were white. 

“ I’m Howard McLane.” 

“Ye begin t’ look it,” said McTurg, removing his 
right hand from his pocket. “ How are ye ? ” 

“ I’m first-rate. How’s mother and Grant ? ” 

“Saw ’m ploughing corn as I came down. Guess 
he’s all right. Want a boost ? ” 

“ Well, yes. Are you down with a team ? ” 

“Yep. ’Bout goin’ home. Climb right in. That’s 
my rig, right there,” nodding at a sleek bay colt hitched 
in a covered buggy. “ Heave y’r grip under the 
seat.” 

They climbed into the seat after William had lowered 
the buggy-top and unhitched the horse from the post. 
The loafers were mildly curious. Guessed Bill had got 
hooked onto by a lightnin’-rod peddler, or somethin’ o’ 
that kind. 

“Want to go by river, or ’round by the hills ? ” 

“ Hills, I guess.” 

The whole matter began to seem trivial, as if he had 
been away only for a month or two. 

William McTurg was a man little given to talk. 
Even the coming back of a nephew did not cause any 
flow of questions or reminiscences. They rode in 
silence. He sat a little bent forward, the lines held 
carelessly in his hands, his great lion-like head swaying 
to and fro with the movement of the buggy. 


74 


Main -Travelled Roads 


As they passed familiar spots, the younger man broke 
the silence with a question. 

“ That’s old man McElvaine’s place, ain’t it ? ” 

u Yep.” 

“ Old man living? ” 

u I guess he is. Husk more corn’n any man he c’n hire.” 

In the edge of the village they passed an open lot on 
the left, marked with circus-rings of different eras. 

“There’s the old ball-ground. Do they have cir- 
cuses on it just the same as ever ? ” 

“Just the same.” 

“ What fun that field calls up ! The games of ball 
we used to have ! Do you play yet ? ” 

“ Sometimes. Can’t stoop as well as I used to.” He 
smiled a little. “Too much fat.” 

It all swept back upon Howard in a flood of names 
and faces and sights and sounds ; something sweet and 
stirring somehow, though it had little of aesthetic charms 
at the time. They were passing along lanes now, be- 
tween superb fields of corn, wherein ploughmen were at 
work. Kingbirds flew from post to post ahead of them ; 
the insects called from the grass. The valley slowly 
outspread below them. The workmen in the fields 
were “ turning out ” for the night. They all had a 
word of chaff with McTurg. 

Over the western wall of the circling amphitheatre 
the sun was setting. A few scattering clouds were 
drifting on the west wind, their shadows sliding down 
the green and purpled slopes. The dazzling sunlight 
flamed along the luscious velvety grass, and shot amid 


75 


Up the Coolly 

the rounded, distant purple peaks, and streamed in bars 
of gold and crimson across the blue mist of the narrower 
upper Coollies. 

The heart of the young man swelled with pleasure 
almost like pain, and the eyes of the silent older man 
took on a far-off, dreaming look, as he gazed at the 
scene which had repeated itself a thousand times in his 
life, but of whose beauty he never spoke. 

Far down to the left was the break in the wall through 
which the river ran on its way to join the Mississippi. 
They climbed slowly among the hills, and the valley 
they had left grew still more beautiful as the squalor of 
the little town was hid by the dusk of distance. Both 
men were silent for a long time. Howard knew the 
peculiarities of his companion too well to make any re- 
marks or ask any questions, and besides it was a genuine 
pleasure to ride with one who understood that silence was 
the only speech amid such splendors. 

Once they passed a little brook singing in a mourn- 
fully sweet way its eternal song over its pebbles. It 
called back to Howard the days when he and Grant, his 
younger brother, had fished in this little brook for trout, 
with trousers rolled above the knee and wrecks of hats 
upon their heads. 

“ Any trout left ? ” he asked. 

“ Not many. Little fellers.” Finding the silence 
broken, William asked the first question since he met 
Howard. u Le’ ’s see : you’re a show feller now ? 
B’long to a troupe ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; Pm an actor.” 


?6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Pay much ? ” 

“ Pretty well.’ , 

That seemed to end William’s curiosity about the 
matter. 

“ Ah, there’s our old house, ain’t it ? ” Howard 
broke out, pointing to one of the houses farther up the 
Coolly. “ It’ll be a surprise to them, won’t it ? ” 
u Yep; only they don’t live there.” 

“ What ! They don’t!” 

“ No.” 

“ Who does ? ” 
u Dutchman.” 

Howard was silent for some moments. “ Who lives 
on the Dunlap place ? ” 

“ ’Nother Dutchman.” 

“ Where’s Grant living, anyhow ? ” 

“Farther up the Coolly.” 

“Well, then, I’d better get out here, hadn’t I ? ” 

“ Oh, I’ll drive ye up.” 

“ No, I’d rather walk.” 

The sun had set, and the Coolly was getting dusk 
when Howard got out of McTurg’s carriage and set off 
up the winding lane toward his brother’s house. He 
walked slowly to absorb the coolness and fragrance and 
color of the hour. The katydids sang a rhythmic song 
of welcome to him. Fireflies were in the grass. A 
whippoorwill in the deep of the wood was calling 
weirdly, and an occasional night-hawk, flying high, 
gave his grating shriek, or hollow boom, suggestive 
and resounding. 


77 


Up the Coolly 

He had been wonderfully successful, and yet had car- 
ried into his success as a dramatic author as well as actor 
a certain puritanism that made him a paradox to his 
fellows. He was one of those actors who are always in 
luck, and the best of it was he kept and made use of his 
luck. Jovial as he appeared, he was inflexible as granite 
against drink and tobacco. He retained through it all a 
certain freshness of enjoyment that made him one of 
the best companions in the profession ; and now, as he 
walked on, the hour and the place appealed to him with 
great power. It seemed to sweep away the life that 
came between. 

How close it all was to him, after all ! In his rest- 
less life, surrounded by the glare of electric lights, painted 
canvas, hot colors, creak of machinery, mock trees, 
stones, and brooks, he had not lost, but gained, appre- 
ciation for the coolness, quiet, and low tones, the shy- 
ness of the wood and field. 

In the farmhouse ahead of him a light was shining 
as he peered ahead, and his heart gave another painful 
movement. His brother was awaiting him there, and 
his mother, whom he had not seen for ten years and who 
had lost the power to write. And when Grant wrote, 
which had been more and more seldom of late, his 
letters had been cold and curt. 

He began to feel that in the pleasure and excitement 
of his life he had grown away from his mother and 
brother. Each summer he had said, “ Well, now, I’ll 
go home this year, sure.” But a new play to be pro- 
duced, or a new yachting trip, or a tour of Europe, had 


78 


Main -Travelled Roads 


put the home-coming off; and now it was with a dis- 
tinct consciousness of neglect of duty that he walked up 
to the fence and looked into the yard, where William 
had told him his brother lived. 

It was humble enough — a small white story-and 
a-half structure, with a wing set in the midst of a few 
locust-trees ; a small drab-colored barn with a sagging 
ridge-pole; a barnyard full of mud, in which a few cows 
were standing, fighting the flies and waiting to be milked. 
An old man was pumping water at the well ; the pigs 
were squealing from a pen near by ; a child was crying. 

Instantly the beautiful, peaceful valley was forgotten. 
A sickening chill struck into Howard’s soul as he looked 
at it all. In the dim light he could see a figure milking 
a cow. Leaving his valise at the gate, he entered and 
walked up to the old man, who had finished pumping 
and was about to go to feed the hogs. 

“ Good-evening,” Howard began. “ Does Mr. Grant 
McLane live here ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, he does. He’s right over there milkin’.” 

u I’ll go over there an — ” 

u Don’t b’lieve I would. It’s darn muddy over there. 
It’s been tumble rainy. He’ll be done in a minute, 
anyway.” 

“Very well; I’ll wait.” 

As he waited, he could hear a woman’s fretful voice 
and the impatient jerk and jar of kitchen things, indica- 
tive of ill-temper or worry. The longer he stood absorb- 
ing this farm-scene, with all its sordidness, dullness, 
triviality, and its endless drudgeries, the lower his heart 


79 


Up the Coolly 

sank. All the joy of the home-coming was gone, when 
the figure arose from the cow and approached the gate, 
and put the pail of milk down on the platform by the 
pump. 

“ Good-evening,” said Howard, out of the dusk. 

Grant stared a moment. u Good-evening.” 

Howard knew the voice, though it was older and 
deeper and more sullen. w Don’t you know me, Grant ? 
I am Howard.” 

The man approached him, gazing intently at his face. 
“You are?” after a pause. “Well, I’m glad to see 
you, but I can’t shake hands. That damned cow had 
laid down in the mud.” 

They stood and looked at each other. Howard’s 
cuffs, collar, and shirt, alien in their elegance, showed 
through the dusk, and a glint of light shot out from the 
jewel of his necktie, as the light from the house caught 
it at the right angle. As they gazed in silence at each 
other, Howard divined something of the hard, bitter 
feeling that came into Grant’s heart, as he stood there, 
ragged, ankle-deep in muck, his sleeves rolled up, a 
shapeless old straw hat on his head. 

The gleam of Howard’s white hands angered him. 
When he spoke, it was in a hard, gruff tone, full of 
rebellion. 

“ Well, go in the house and set down. I’ll be in 
soon ’s I strain the milk and wash the dirt off my hands.” 

“But mother — ” 

“She’s ’round somewhere. Just knock on the door 
under the porch round there/’ 


8o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Howard went slowly around the corner of the house, 
past a vilely smelling rain-barrel, toward the west. A 
gray-haired woman was sitting in a rocking-chair on the 
porch, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the faintly 
yellow sky, against which the hills stood, dim purple 
silhouettes, and on which the locust trees were etched as 
fine as lace. There was sorrow, resignation, and a sort 
of dumb despair in her attitude. 

Howard stood, his throat swelling till it seemed as if 
he would suffocate. This was his mother — the woman 
who bore him, the being who had taken her life in her 
hand for him; and he, in his excited and pleasurable 
life, had neglected her ! 

He stepped into the faint light before her. She turned 
and looked at him without fear. “ Mother ! ” he said. 
She uttered one little, breathing, gasping cry, called his 
name, rose, and stood still. He bounded up the steps, 
and took her in his arms. 

“ Mother ! Dear old mother ! ” 

In the silence, almost painful, which followed, an 
angry woman’s voice could be heard inside : “ I don’t 
care ! I ain’t goin’ to wear myself out fer him. He 
c’n eat out here with us, or else — ” 

Mrs. McLane began speaking. “ Oh, I’ve longed to 
see yeh, Howard. I was afraid you wouldn’t come till 
— too late.” 

“ What do you mean, mother ? Ain’t you well ? ” 

“ I don’t seem to be able to do much now ’cept sit 
around and knit a little. I tried to pick some berries 
the other day, and I got so dizzy I had to give it up.” 


8i 


Up the Coolly 

u You mustn’t work. You needn't work. Why 
didn’t you write to me how you were ? ” Howard asked, 
in an agony of remorse. 

“ Well, we felt as if you probably had all you could 
do to take care of yourself. Are you married, How- 
ard ? ” she broke off to ask. 

u No, mother ; and there ain’t any excuse for me — 
not a bit,” he said, dropping back into her colloquialisms. 
u I’m ashamed when I think of how long it’s been since 
I saw you. I could have come.” 

u It don’t matter now,” she interrupted gently. u It’s 
the way things go. Our boys grow up and leave us.” 

u Well, come in to supper,” said Grant’s ungracious 
voice from the doorway. “ Come, mother.” 

Mrs. McLane moved with difficulty. Howard sprang 
to her aid, and, leaning on his arm, she went through 
the little sitting room, which was unlighted, out into the 
kitchen, where the supper table stood near the cook-stove. 

“ How. — this is my wife,” said Grant, in a cold, 
peculiar tone. 

Howard bowed toward a remarkably handsome young 
woman, on whose forehead was a scowl, which did not 
change as she looked at him and the old lady. 

u Set down anywhere,” was the young woman’s cor- 
dial invitation. 

Howard sat down next his mother, and facing the 
wife, who had a small, fretful child in her arms. At 
Howard’s left was the old man, Lewis. The supper 
was spread upon a gay-colored oil-cloth, and consisted 
of a pan of milk, set in the midst, with bowls at each 


G 


82 


Main -Travelled Roads 


plate. Beside the pan was a dipper and a large plate 
of bread, and at one end of the table was a dish of 
fine honey. 

A boy of about fourteen leaned upon the table, his 
bent shoulders making him look like an old man. His 
hickory shirt, like Grant’s, was still wet with sweat, and 
discolored here and there with grease, or green from 
grass. His hair, freshly wet and combed, was smoothed 
away from his face, and shone in the light of the 
kerosene lamp. As he ate, he stared at Howard, as 
though he would make an inventory of each thread of 
the visitor’s clothing. 

“ Did I look like that at his age ? ” thought Howard. 

u You see we live just about the same as ever,” said 
Grant, as they began eating, speaking with a grim, 
almost challenging, inflection. 

The two brothers studied each other curiously, as 
they talked of neighborhood scenes. Howard seemed 
incredibly elegant and handsome to them all, with his 
rich, soft clothing, his spotless linen, and his exquisite 
enunciation and ease of speech. He had always been 
“ smooth-spoken,” and he had become w elegantly per- 
suasive,” as his friends said of him, and it was a large 
factor in his success. 

Every detail of the kitchen, the heat, the flies buzzing 
aloft, the poor furniture, the dress of the people — all 
smote him like the lash of a wire whip. His brother 
was a man of great character. He could see that now. 
His deep-set, gray eyes and rugged face showed at thirty 
a man of great natural ability. He had more of the 


Up the Coolly 83 

Scotch in his face than Howard, and he looked much 
older. 

He was dressed, like the old man and the boy, in a 
checked shirt, without vest. His suspenders, once gay- 
colored, had given most of their color to his shirt, and 
had marked irregular broad bands of pink and brown 
and green over his shoulders. His hair was uncombed, 
merely pushed away from his face. He wore a mus- 
tache only, though his face was covered with a week’s 
growth of beard. His face was rather gaunt, and was 
brown as leather. 

Howard could not eat much. He was disturbed by 
his mother’s strange silence and oppression, and sick- 
ened by the long-drawn gasps with which the old man 
ate his bread and milk, and by the way the boy ate. 
He had his knife gripped tightly in his fist, knuckles up, 
and was scooping honey upon his bread. 

The baby, having ceased to be afraid, was curious, 
gazing silently at the stranger. 

“ Hello, little one ! Come and see your uncle. Eh ? 
Course ’e will,” cooed Howard, in the attempt to escape 
the depressing atmosphere. The little one listened to 
his inflections as a kitten does, and at last lifted its arms 
in sign of surrender. 

The mother’s face cleared up a little. u I declare, 
she wants to go to you.” 

“ Course she does. Dogs and kittens always come to 
me when I call ’em. Why shouldn’t my own niece 
come ? ” 

He took the little one and began walking up and 


8 4 


Main -Travelled Roads 


down the kitchen with her, while she pulled at his 
beard and nose. “ I ought to have you, my lady, in my 
new comedy. You’d bring down the house.” 

cc You don’t mean to say you put babies on the stage, 
Howard ? ” said his mother in surprise. 

u Oh, yes. Domestic comedy must have a baby 
these days.” 

“Well, that’s another way of makin’ a livin’, sure,” 
said Grant. The baby had cleared the atmosphere a 
little. u I s’pose you fellers make a pile of money.” 

“ Sometimes we make a thousand a week ; oftener 
we don’t.” 

“ A thousand dollars ! ” They all stared. 

“ A thousand dollars sometimes, and then lose it all 
the next week in another town. The dramatic business 
is a good deal like gambling — you take your chances.” 

“ I wish you weren’t in it, Howard. I don’t like to 
have my son — ” 

“I wish I was in somethin’ that paid better than 
farmin’. Anything under God’s heavens is better ’n 
farmin’,” said Grant. 

“ No, I ain’t laid up much,” Howard went on, as if 
explaining why he hadn’t helped them. “ Costs me a 
good deal to live, and I need about ten thousand dollars 
leeway to work on. I’ve made a good living, but I — I 
ain’t made any money.” 

Grant looked at him, darkly meditative. 

Howard went on : u How’d ye come to sell the old 
farm ? I was in hopes — ” 

“ How’d we come to sell it ? ” said Grant with terri- 


Up the Coolly 85 

ble bitterness. lc We had something on it that didn’t 
leave anything to sell. You probably don’t remember 
anything about it, but there was a mortgage on it that 
eat us up in just four years by the almanac. ’Most 
killed mother to leave it. We wrote to you for money, 
but I don’t suppose you remember that” 

“ No, you didn’t.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“ When was it ? I don’t — why, it’s — I never re- 
ceived it. It must have been that summer I went with 
Bob Manning to Europe.” Howard put the baby down 
and faced his brother. “ Why, Grant, you didn’t think 
I refused to help ? ” 

“Well, it looked that way. We never heard a word 
from yeh, all summer, and when y’ did write, it was all 
about yerself ’n plays ’n things we didn’t know anything 
about. I swore to God I’d never write to you again, 
and I won’t.” 

“ But, good heavens ! I never got it.” 

“Suppose you didn’t. You might have known we 
were poor as Job’s off-ox. Everybody is that earns a 
living. We fellers on the farm have to earn a livin’ 
for ourselves and you fellers that don’t work. I don’t 
blame you. I’d do it if I could.” 

“ Grant, don’t talk so ! Howard didn’t realize — ” 

“ I tell yeh I don’t blame him ! Only I don’t want 
him to come the brotherly business over me, after livin’ 
as he has — that’s all.” There was a bitter accusation 
in the man’s voice. 

Howard leaped to his feet, his face twitching. 


86 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ By God, I’ll go back to-morrow morning ! ” he 
threatened. 

w Go, an’ be damned ! I don’t care what yeh do,” 
Grant growled, rising and going out. 

“ Boys,” called the mother, piteously, “ it’s terrible to 
see you quarrel.” 

“ But I’m not to blame, mother,” cried Howard, in a 
sickness that made him white as chalk. “ The man is 
a savage. I came home to help you all, not to quarrel.” 

“ Grant’s got one o’ his fits on,” said the young wife, 
speaking for the first time. “ Don’t pay any attention 
to him. He’ll be all right in the morning.” 

“If it wasn’t for you, mother, I’d leave now, and 
never see that savage again.” 

He lashed himself up and down in the room, in horri- 
ble disgust and hate of his brother and of this home in 
his heart. He remembered his tender anticipations of 
the home-coming with a kind of self-pity and disgust. 
This was his greeting ! 

He went to bed, to toss about on the hard, straw-filled 
mattress in the stuffy little best room. Tossing, writh- 
ing under the bludgeoning of his brother’s accusing in- 
flections, a dozen times he said, with a half-articulate 
snarl : 

u He can go to hell ! I’ll not try to do anything 
more for him. I don’t care if he is my brother ; he has 
no right to jump on me like that. On the night of my 
return, too. My God ! he is a brute, a fool ! ” 

He thought of the presents in his trunk and valise, 
which he couldn’t show to him that night after what had 


87 


Up the Coolly 

been said. He had intended to have such a happy even- 
ing of it, such a tender reunion ! It was to be so bright 
and cheery ! 

In the midst of his cursings — his hot indignation — 
would come visions of himself in his own modest rooms. 
He seemed to be yawning and stretching in his beauti- 
ful bed, the sun shining in, his books, foils, pictures, 
around him to say good-morning and tempt him to rise, 
while the squat little clock on the mantel struck eleven 
warningly. 

He could see the olive walls, the unique copper-and- 
crimson arabesque frieze (his own selection), and the 
delicate draperies ; an open grate full of glowing coals, 
to temper the sea-winds ; and in the midst of it, between 
a landscape by Enneking and an Indian in a canoe in a 
canon, by Brush, he saw a sombre landscape by a master 
greater than Millet, a melancholy subject, treated with 
pitiless fidelity. 

A farm in the valley ! Over the mountains swept 
jagged, gray, angry, sprawling clouds, sending a freezing, 
thin drizzle of rain, as they passed, upon a man following 
a plough. The horses had a sullen and weary look, and 
their manes and tails streamed sidewise in the blast. 
The ploughman, clad in a ragged gray coat, with uncouth, 
muddy boots upon his feet, walked with his head inclined 
toward the sleet, to shield his face from the cold and 
sting of it. The soil rolled away black and sticky and 
with a dull sheen upon it. Near by, a boy with tears on 
his cheeks was watching cattle ; a dog seated near, his 
back to the gale. 


88 


Main -Travelled Roads 


As he looked at this picture, his heart softened. He 
looked down at the sleeve of his soft and fleecy night- 
shirt, at his white, rounded arm, muscular, yet fine as a 
woman’s, and when he looked for the picture it was gone. 
Then came again the assertive odor of stagnant air, laden 
with camphor; he felt the springless bed under him, 
and caught dimly a few soap-advertising lithographs 
on the walls. He thought of his brother, in his still 
more inhospitable bedroom, disturbed by the child, con- 
demned to rise at five o’clock and begin another day’s 
pitiless labor. His heart shrank and quivered, and the 
tears started to his eyes. 

u I forgive him, poor fellow ! He’s not to blame.” 

II 

He woke, however, with a dull, languid pulse, and an 
oppressive melancholy on his heart. He looked around 
the little room, clean enough, but oh, how poor ! how 
barren ! Cold plaster walls, a cheap wash-stand, a wash- 
set of three pieces, with a blue band around each ; the 
windows rectangular, and fitted with fantastic green 
shades. 

Outside he could hear the bees humming. Chickens 
were merrily moving about. Cow-bells far up the road 
were sounding irregularly. A jay came by and yelled an 
insolent reveille, and Howard sat up. He could hear 
nothing in the house but the rattle of pans on the back 
side of the kitchen. He looked at his watch, which 
indicated half-past seven. Grant was already in the field, 


Up the Coolly 89 

after milking, currying the horses, and eating breakfast 
— had been at work two hours and a half. 

He dressed himself hurriedly, in a neglige shirt, with 
a Windsor scarf, light-colored, serviceable trousers with, 
a belt, russet shoes, and a tennis hat — a knockabout 
costume, he considered. His mother, good soul, thought 
it a special suit put on for her benefit, and admired it 
through her glasses. 

He kissed her with a bright smile, nodded at Laura, 
the young wife, and tossed the baby, all in a breath, and 
with the manner, as he himself saw, of the returned cap- 
tain in the war-dramas of the day. 

“Been to breakfast?”* He frowned reproachfully. 
“Why didn't you call me? I wanted to get up, just as 
I used to, at sunrise.” 

u We thought you was tired, and so we didn’t — ” 

“Tired! Just wait till you see me help Grant 
pitch hay or something. Hasn’t finished his haying yet, 
has he ? ” 

“ No, I guess not. He will to-day if it don’t rain again.” 

“Well, breakfast is all ready — Howard,” said Laura, 
hesitating a little on his name. 

“ Good ! I am ready for it. Bacon and eggs, as I’m 
a j a y ! Just what I was wanting. I was saying to 
myself : c Now if they’ll only get bacon and eggs and 
hot biscuits and honey — ’ Oh, say, mother, I heard the 
bees humming this morning; same noise they used to 
make when I was a boy, exactly. Must be the same 
bees, — Hey, you young rascal ! come here and have 
some breakfast with your uncle.” 


9 o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


u I never saw her take to any one so quick,” Laura 
said, emphasizing the baby’s sex. She had on a clean 
calico dress and a gingham apron, and she looked strong 
and fresh and handsome. Her head was intellectual, 
her eyes full of power. She seemed anxious to remove 
the impression of her unpleasant looks and words the 
night before. Indeed it would have been hard to resist 
Howard’s sunny good-nature. 

The baby laughed and crowed. The old mother 
could not take her dim eyes off the face of her son, but 
sat smiling at him as he ate and rattled on. When he 
rose from the table at last, after eating heartily and 
praising it all, he said, with a smile : 

u Well, now I’ll just telephone down to the express 
and have my trunk brought up. I’ve got a few little 
things in there you’ll enjoy seeing. But this fellow,” 
indicating the baby, “I didn’t take him into account. 
But never mind : Uncle How. ’ll make that all right.” 

“ You ain’t going to lay it up agin Grant, be you, my 
son ? ” Mrs. McLane faltered, as they went out into 
the best room. 

a Of course not ! He didn’t mean it. Now, can’t 
you send word down and have my trunk brought up ? 
Or shall I have to walk down ? ” 

u I guess I’ll see somebody goin’ down,” said Laura. 
cc All right. Now for the hay-field,” he smiled, and 
went out into the glorious morning. 

The circling hills were the same, yet not the same as at 
night, a cooler, tenderer, more subdued cloak of color lay 
upon them. Far down the valley a cool, deep, impalpable, 


9 1 


Up the Coolly 

blue mist hung, beneath which one divined the river ran, 
under its elms and basswoods and wild grapevines. On 
the shaven slopes of the hill cattle and sheep were feed- 
ing, their cries and bells coming to the ear with a sweet 
suggestiveness. There was something immemorial in 
the sunny slopes dotted with red and brown and gray 
cattle. 

Walking toward the haymakers, Howard felt a twinge 
of pain and distrust. Would Grant ignore it all and 
smile — 

He stopped short. He had not seen Grant smile in 
so long — he couldn’t quite see him smiling. He had 
been cold and bitter for years. When he came up to 
them, Grant was pitching on ; the old man was loading, 
and the boy was raking after. 

“ Good-morning,” Howard cried cheerily ; the old 
man nodded, the boy stared. Grant growled something, 
without looking up. These u finical ” things of saying 
good-morning and good-night are not much practised in 
such homes as Grant McLane’s. 

“ Need some help ? Pm ready to take a hand. Got 
on my regimentals this morning.” 

Grant looked at him a moment. “You look it.” 

Howard smiled. “ Gimme a hold on that fork, and 
I’ll show you. I’m not so soft as I look, now you bet.” 

He laid hold upon the fork in Grant’s hands, who 
released it sullenly and stood back sneering. Howard 
stuck the fork into the pile in the old way, threw his 
left hand to the end of the polished handle, brought it 
down into the hollow of his thigh, and laid out his 


9 1 


Main -Travelled Roads 


strength till the handle bent like a bow. “ Oop she 
rises ! ” he called laughingly, as the huge pile began 
slowly to rise, and finally rolled upon the high load. 

“ Oh, I ain’t forgot how to do it,” he laughed, as 
he looked around at the boy, who was eyeing the 
tennis suit with a devouring gaze. 

Grant was studying him, too, but not in admiration. 

“ I shouldn’t say you had,” said the old man, tugging 
at the forkful. 

“ Mighty funny to come out here and do a little of 
this. But if you had to come here and do it all the 
while, you wouldn’t look so white and soft in the hands,” 
Grant said, as they moved on to another pile. “ Give 
me that fork. You’ll be spoiling your fine clothes.” 

“ Oh, these don’t matter. They’re made for this 
kind of thing.” 

“ Oh, are they ? I guess I’ll dress in that kind of a 
rig. What did that shirt cost ? I need one.” 

u Six dollars a pair ; but then it’s old.” 

“And them pants,” he pursued ; “they cost six dollars^ 
too, didn’t they ? ” 

Howard’s face darkened. He saw his brother’s pur- 
pose. He resented it. “ They cost fifteen dollars, if 
you want to know, and the shoes cost six-fifty. This 
ring on my cravat cost sixty dollars, and the suit I had 
on last night cost eighty-five. My suits are made by 
Breckstein, on Fifth Avenue, if you want to patronize 
him,” he ended brutally, spurred on by the sneer in his 
brother’s eyes. “I’ll introduce you.” 

“ Good idea,” said Grant, with a forced, mocking smile 


93 


Up the Coolly 

44 I need just such a get-up for haying and corn-ploughing. 
Singular I never thought of it. Now my pants cost 
eighty-five cents, s’spenders fifteen, hat twenty, shoes 
one-fifty ; stockin’s I don’t bother about.” 

He had his brother at a disadvantage, and he grew 
fluent and caustic as he went on, almost changing 
places with Howard, who took the rake out of the boy’s 
hand, and followed, raking up the scatterings. 

44 Singular we fellers here are discontented and mulish, 
ain’t it? Singular we don’t believe your letters when 
you write, sayin’, 4 1 just about make a live of it ’ ? 
Singular we think the country’s goin’ to hell, we fellers, 
in a two-dollar suit, wadin’ around in the mud or 
sweatin’ around in the hay-field, while you fellers lay 
around New York and smoke and wear good clothes 
and toady to millionaires ? ” 

Howard threw down the rake and folded his arms. 
44 My God ! you’re enough to make a man forget the 
same mother bore us ! ” 

44 1 guess it wouldn’t take much to make you forget 
that. You ain’t put much thought on me nor her for 
ten years.” 

The old man cackled, the boy grinned, and Howard, 
sick and weak with anger and sorrow, turned away and 
walked down toward the brook. He had tried once 
more to get near his brother, and had failed. Oh, God ! 
how miserably, pitiably ! The hot blood gushed all 
over him as he thought of the shame and disgrace of it. 

He, a man associating with poets, artists, sought after 
by brilliant women, accustomed to deference even from 


94 


Main -Travelled Roads 


such people, to be sneered at, outfaced, shamed, shoved 
aside, by a man in a stained hickory shirt and patched 
overalls, and that man his brother ! He lay down on 
the bright grass, with the sheep all around him, and 
writhed and groaned with the agony and despair of it. 

And worst of all, underneath it was a consciousness 
that Grant was right in distrusting him. He had neg- 
lected him ; he had said, “ I guess they’re getting along 
all right.” He had put them behind him when the 
invitation to spend summer on the Mediterranean or in 
the Adirondacks, came. 

u What can I do ? What can I do ? ” he groaned. 

The sheep nibbled the grass near him, the jays called 
pertly, M Shame, shame,” a quail piped somewhere on 
the hillside, and the brook sung a soft, soothing melody 
that took away at last the sharp edge of his pain, and 
he sat up and gazed down the valley, bright with the 
sun and apparently filled with happy and prosperous 
people. 

Suddenly a thought seized him. He stood up so 
suddenly that the sheep fled in affright. He leaped the 
brook, crossed the flat, and began searching in the 
bushes on the hillside. “ Hurrah ! ” he said, with a 
smile. 

He had found an old road which he used to travel 
when a boy — a road that skirted the edge of the valley, 
now grown up to brush, but still passable for footmen. 
As he ran lightly along down the beautiful path, under 
oaks and hickories, past masses of poison-ivy, under 
hanging grapevines, through clumps of splendid hazel- 


Up the Coolly 95 

nut bushes loaded with great sticky, rough, green burs, 
his heart threw off part of its load. 

How it all came back to him ! How many days, 
when the autumn sun burned the frost of the bushes, 
had he gathered hazel-nuts here with his boy and girl 
friends — Hugh and Shelley McTurg, Rome Sawyer, 
Orrin Mcllvaine, and the rest ! What had become of 
them all ? How he had forgotten them ! 

This thought stopped him again, and he fell into a 
deep muse, leaning against an oak tree, and gazing into 
the vast fleckless space above. The thrilling, inscruta- 
ble mystery of life fell upon him like a blinding light. 
Why was he living in the crush and thunder and mental 
unrest of a great city, while his companions, seemingly 
his equals in powers, were milking cows, making but- 
ter, and growing corn and wheat in the silence and 
drear monotony of the farm ? 

His boyish sweethearts ! their names came back to 
his ear now, with a dull, sweet sound as of faint bells. 
He saw their faces, their pink sunbonnets tipped back 
upon their necks, their brown ankles flying with the 
swift action of the scurrying partridge. His eyes soft- 
ened, he took off his hat. The sound of the wind and 
the leaves moved him almost to tears. 

A woodpecker gave a shrill, high-keyed, sustained 
cry “ Ki, ki, ki ! ” and he started from his revery, 
the dapples of the sun and shade falling upon his lithe 
figure as he hurried on down the path. 

He came at last to a field of corn that ran to the very 
wall of a large weather-beaten house, the sight of which 


9 6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


made his breathing quicker. It was the place where he 
was born. The mystery of his life began there. In 
the branches of those poplar and hickory trees he had 
swung and sung in the rushing breeze, fearless as a 
squirrel. Here was the brook where, like a larger 
kildee, he with Grant had waded after crawfish, or had 
stolen upon some wary trout, rough-cut pole in hand. 

Seeing someone in the garden, he went down along 
the corn-row through the rustling ranks of green leaves. 
An old woman was picking berries, a squat and shape- 
less figure. 

u Good-morning,” he called cheerily. 

“ Morgen,” she said, looking up at him with a 
startled and very red face. She was German in every 
line of her body. 

“ Ich bin Herr McLane,” he said, after a pause. 

11 So ? ” she replied, with a questioning inflection. 

“ Yah ; ich bin Herr Grant’s Bruder.” 

u Ach, so ! ” she said, with a downward inflection. 
u Ich no spick Inglish. No spick Inglis.” 

“ Ich bin durstig,” he said. Leaving her pans, she 
went with him to the house, which was what he really 
wanted to see. 

w Ich bin hier geboren.” 

“ Ach, so!” She recognized the little bit of senti- 
ment, and said some sentences in German whose gen- 
eral meaning was sympathy. She took him to the cool 
cellar where the spring had been trained to run into a 
tank containing pans of cream and milk ; she gave him 
a cool draught from a large tin cup, and at his request 


97 


Up the Coolly 

went with him upstairs. The house was the same, but 
somehow seemed cold and empty. It was clean and 
sweet, but it showed so little evidence of being lived in. 
The old part, which was built of logs, was used as best 
room, and modelled after the best rooms of the neigh- 
boring cc Yankee ” homes, only it was emptier, without the 
cabinet organ and the rag-carpet and the chromos. 

The old fireplace was bricked up and plastered — the 
fireplace beside which, in the far-off days, he had lain on 
winter nights, to hear his uncles tell tales of hunting, or 
to hear them play the violin, great dreaming giants that 
they were. 

The old woman went out and left him sitting there, 
the centre of a swarm of memories, coming and going 
like so many ghostly birds and butterflies. 

A curious heartache and listlessness, a nerveless mood 
came on him. What was it worth, anyhow — success ? 
Struggle, strife, trampling on some one else. His play 
crowding out some other poor fellow’s hope. The hawk 
eats the partridge, the partridge eats the flies and bugs, 
the bugs eat each other and the hawk, when he in his 
turn is shot by man. So in the world of business, the 
life of one man seemed to him to be drawn from the 
life of another man, each success to spring from other 
failures. 

He was like a man from whom all motives had been 
withdrawn. He was sick, sick to the heart. Oh, to be 
a boy again ! An ignorant baby, pleased with a block 
and string, with no knowledge and no care of the great 
unknown ! To lay his head again on his mother’s 


H 


9 8 


Main -Travelled Roads 


bosom and rest ! To watch the flames on the 
hearth ! — 

Why not ? Was not that the very thing to do ? To 
buy back the old farm ? It would cripple him a little 
for the next season, but he could do it. Think of it ! 
To see his mother back in the old home, with the fire- 
place restored, the old furniture in the sitting room 
around her, and fine new things in the parlor ! 

His spirits rose again. Grant couldn’t stand out 
when he brought to him a deed of the farm. Surely 
his debt would be cancelled when he had seen them all 
back in the wide old kitchen. He began to plan and to 
dream. He went to the windows, and looked out on 
the yard to see how much it had changed. 

He’d build a new barn and buy them a new carriage. 
His heart glowed again, and his lips softened into their 
usual feminine grace — lips a little full and falling easily 
into curves. 

The old German woman came in at length, bringing 
some cakes and a bowl of milk, smiling broadly and hos- 
pitably as she waddled forward. 

“ Ach ! Goot ! ” he said, smacking his lips over the 
pleasant draught. 

“Wo ist ihre goot mann ? ” he inquired, ready for 
business. 


Ill 

When Grant came in at noon Mrs. McLane met 
him at the door with a tender smile on her face. 

“ Where’s Howard, Grant ? ” 


Up the Coolly 99 

“ I don’t know,” he replied, in a tone that implied “ I 
don’t care.” 

The dim eyes clouded with quick tears. 
u Ain’t you seen him ? ” 
w Not since nine o’clock.” 

“ Where do you think he is ? ” 

“ I tell yeh I don’t know. He’ll take care of him- 
self ; don’t worry.” 

He flung off his hat and plunged into the wash-basin. 
His shirt was wet with sweat and covered with dust of 
the hay and fragments of leaves. He splashed his burn- 
ing face with the water, paying no further attention to 
his mother. She spoke again, very gently, in reproof : 
w Grant, why do you stand out against Howard so ? ” 
u I don’t stand out against him,” he replied harshly, 
pausing with the towel in his hands. His eyes were 
hard and piercing. “ But if he expects me to gush over 
his coming back, he’s fooled, that’s all. He’s left us to 
paddle our own canoe all this while, and, so far as Vm 
concerned, he can leave us alone hereafter. He looked 
out for his precious hide mighty well, and now he comes 
back here to play big gun and pat us on the head. I 
don’t propose to let him come that over me.” 

Mrs. McLane knew too well the temper of her son to 
say any more, but she inquired about Howard of the old 
hired man. 

w He went off down the valley. He ’n’ Grant had 
s’m words , and he pulled out down toward the old farm. 
That’s the last I see of ’im.” 

Laura took Howard’s part at the table. “ Pity you 


IOO 


Main -Travelled Roads 


can’t be decent,” she said, brutally direct as usual. 
“ You treat Howard as if he was a — a — I do’ know 
what.” 

“Will you let me alone?” 

“ No, I won’t. If you think I’m going to set by an’ 
agree to your bullyraggin’ him, you’re mistaken. It’s a 
shame ! You’re mad ’cause he’s succeeded and you 
hain’t. He ain’t to blame for his brains. If you and 
I’d had any, we’d ’a’ succeeded too. It ain’t our fault, 
and it ain’t his; so what’s the use? ” 

A look came into Grant’s face which the wife knew 
meant bitter and terrible silence. He ate his dinner 
without another word. 

It was beginning to cloud up. A thin, whitish, all- 
pervasive vapor which meant rain was dimming the sky, 
and Grant forced his hands to their utmost during the 
afternoon, in order to get most of the down hay in before 
the rain came. He was pitching from the load into the 
barn when Howard came by, just before one o’clock. 

It was windless there. The sun fell through the 
white mist with undiminished fury, and the fragrant hay 
sent up a breath that was hot as an oven-draught. 
Grant was a powerful man, and there was something 
majestic in his action as he rolled the huge flakes of hay 
through the door. The sweat poured from his face like 
rain, and he was forced to draw his drenched sleeve 
across his face to clear away the blinding sweat that 
poured into his eyes. 

Howard stood and looked at him in silence, remem- 
bering how often he had worked there in that furnace- 


IOI 


Up the Coolly 

heat, his muscles quivering, cold chills running over his 
flesh, red shadows dancing before his eyes. 

His mother met him at the door, anxiously, but smiled 
as she saw his pleasant face and cheerful eyes. 

u You’re a little late, m’ son.” 

Howard spent most of the afternoon sitting with his 
mother on the porch, or under the trees, lying sprawled 
out like a boy, resting at times with sweet forgetfulness 
of the whole world, but feeling a dull pain whenever he 
remembered the stern, silent man pitching hay in the hot 
sun on the torrid side of the barn. 

His mother did not say anything about the quarrel ; 
she feared to reopen it. She talked mainly of old times 
in a gentle monotone of reminiscence, while he listened, 
looking up into her patient face. 

The heat slowly lessened as the sun sank down toward 
the dun clouds rising like a more distant and majestic 
line of mountains beyond the western hills. The sound 
of cow-bells came irregularly to the ear, and the voices 
and sounds of the haying-fields had a jocund, pleasant 
sound to the ear of the city-dweller. 

He was very tender. Everything conspired to make 
him simple, direct, and honest. 

tc Mother, if you’ll only forgive me for staying away 
so long, I’ll surely come to see you every summer.” 

She had nothing to forgive. She was so glad to have him 
there at her feet — her great, handsome, successful boy ! 
She could only love him and enjoy him every moment 
of the precious days. If Grant would only reconcile him- 
self to Howard ! That was the great thorn in her flesh. 


102 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Howard told her how he had succeeded. 

“ It was luck, mother. First I met Cook, and he in- 
troduced me to Jake Saulsman of Chicago. Jake asked 
me to go to New York with him, and — I don’t know 
why — took a fancy to me some way. He introduced 
me to a lot of the fellows in New York, and they all 
helped me along. I did nothing to merit it. Everybody 
helps me. Anybody can succeed in that way.” 

The doting mother thought it not at all strange that 
they all helped him. 

At the supper table Grant was gloomily silent, ignor- 
ing Howard completely. Mrs. McLane sat and grieved 
silently, not daring to say a word in protest. Laura 
and the baby tried to amuse Howard, and under cover 
of their talk the meal was eaten. 

The boy fascinated Howard. He u sawed wood ” 
with a rapidity and uninterruptedness which gave alarm. 
He had the air of coaling up for a long voyage. 

“At that age,” Howard thought, “ I must have gripped 
my knife in my right hand so, and poured my tea into 
my saucer so. I must have buttered and bit into a huge 
slice of bread just so, and chewed at it with a smacking 
sound in just that way. I must have gone to the length 
of scooping up honey with my knife-blade.” 

The sky was magically beautiful over all this 
squalor and toil and bitterness, from five till seven — a 
moving hour. Again the falling sun streamed in broad 
banners across the valleys ; again the blue mist lay far 
down the Coolly over the river; the cattle called from 
the hills in the moistening, sonorous air ; the bells came 


Up the Coolly 103 

in a pleasant tangle of sound ; the air pulsed with the 
deepening chorus of katydids and other nocturnal 
singers. 

Sweet and deep as the very springs of his life was all 
this to the soul of the elder brother ; but in the midst 
of it, the younger man, in ill-smelling clothes and great 
boots that chafed his feet, went out to milk the cows, — 
on whose legs the flies and mosquitoes swarmed, bloated 
with blood, — to sit by the hot side of a cow and be 
lashed with her tail as she tried frantically to keep the 
savage insects from eating her raw. 

“ The poet who writes of milking the cows does it 
from the hammock, looking on,” Howard soliloquized, as 
he watched the old man Lewis racing around the filthy 
yard after one of the young heifers that had kicked over 
the pail in her agony with the flies, and was unwilling to 
stand still and be eaten alive. 

“ So, so ! you beast ! ” roared the old man, as he 
finally cornered the shrinking, nearly frantic creature. 

u Don’t you want to look at the garden ? ” asked 
Mrs. McLane of Howard; and they went out among 
the vegetables and berries. 

The bees were coming home heavily laden and crawl- 
ing slowly into the hives. The level, red light streamed 
through the trees, blazed along the grass, and lighted a 
few old-fashioned flowers into red and gold flame. It 
was beautiful, and Howard looked at it through his half- 
shut eyes as the painters do, and turned away with a 
sigh at the sound of blows where the wet and grimy 
men were assailing the frantic cows. 


104 Main -Travelled Roads 

“ There’s Wesley with your trunk,” Mrs. McLane 
said, recalling him to himself. 

Wesley helped him carry the trunk in, and waved off 
thanks. 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” he said ; and Howard knew 
the Western man too well to press the matter of pay. 

As he went in an hour later and stood by the trunk, 
the dull ache came back to his heart. How he had 
failed ! It seemed like a bitter mockery now to show 
his gifts. 

Grant had come in from his work, and with his feet 
released from his chafing boots, in his wet shirt and 
milk-splashed overalls, sat at the kitchen table reading a 
newspaper which he held close to a small kerosene lamp. 
He paid no attention to any one. His attitude, curiously 
like his father’s, was perfectly definite to Howard. It 
meant that from that time forward there were to be no 
words of any sort between them. It meant that they 
were no longer brothers, not even acquaintances. u How 
inexorable that face ! ” thought Howard. 

He turned sick with disgust and despair, and would 
have closed his trunk without showing any of the 
presents, only for the childish expectancy of his mother 
and Laura. 

“ Here’s something for you, mother,” he said, assum- 
ing a cheerful voice, as he took a fold of fine silk from 
the trunk and held it up. “ All the way from Paris.” 
He laid it on his mother’s lap and stooped and kissed 
her, and then turned hastily away to hide the tears that 
came to his own eyes as he saw her keen pleasure. 


io 5 


Up the Coolly 

cc And here’s a parasol for Laura. I don’t know how 
I came to have that in here. And here’s General 
Grant’s autobiography for his namesake,” he said, with 
an effort at carelessness, and waited to hear Grant 
rise. 

“ Grant, won’t you come in ? ” asked his mother, 
quaveringly. 

Grant did not reply nor move. Laura took the 
handsome volumes out and laid them beside him on the 
table. He simply pushed them one side and went on 
with his reading. 

Again that horrible anger swept hot as flame over 
Howard. He could have cursed him. His hands 
shook as he handed out other presents to his mother and 
Laura and the baby. He tried to joke. 

“ I didn’t know how old the baby was, so she’ll have 
to grow to some of these things.” 

But the pleasure was all gone for him and for the 
rest. His heart swelled almost to a feeling of pain as 
he looked at his mother. There she sat with the 
presents in her lap. The shining silk came too late for 
her. It threw into appalling relief her age, her poverty, 
her work-weary frame. u My God ! ” he almost cried 
aloud, “ how little it would have taken to lighten her 
life ! ” 

Upon this moment, when it seemed as if he could 
endure no more, came the smooth voice of William 
McTurg : 

“ Hello, folkses ! ” 

“ Hello, Uncle Bill ! Come in.” 


io6 Main -Travelled Roads 

“That’s what we came for,” laughed a woman’s 
voice. 

“ Is that you, Rose ? ” asked Laura. 

u It’s me — Rose,” replied the laughing girl, as she 
bounced into the room and greeted everybody in a 
breathless sort of way. 

“ You don’t mean little Rosy ? ” 

“ Big Rosy now,” said William. 

Howard looked at the handsome girl and smiled, 
saying in a nasal sort of tone, w Wal, wal ! Rosy, how 
you’ve growed since I saw yeh ! ” 

“ Oh, look at all this purple and fine linen ! Am I 
left out ? ” 

Rose was a large girl of twenty-five or thereabouts, 
and was called an old maid. She radiated good-nature 
from every line of her buxom self. Her black eyes 
were full of drollery, and she was on the best of terms 
with Howard at once. She had been a teacher, but 
that did not prevent her from assuming a homely direct- 
ness of speech. Of course they talked about old 
friends. 

u Where’s Rachel ? ” Howard inquired. Her smile 
faded away. 

“ Shellie married Orrin Mcllvaine. They’re ’way out 
in Dakota. Shellie’s havin’ a hard row of stumps.” 

There was a little silence. 

“ And Tommy ? ” 

“Gone West. Most all the boys have gone West. 
That’s the reason there’s so many old maids.” 

“You don’t mean to say — ” 


io7 


Up the Coolly 

cc I don’t need to say — I’m an old maid. Lots of 
the girls are. It don’t pay to marry these days. Are 
you married ? ” 

“Noty*tf.” His eyes lighted up again in a humorous 
way. 

u Not yet ! That’s good ! That’s the way old maids 
all talk.” 

“You don’t mean to tell me that no young fellow 
comes prowling around — ” 

“ Oh, a young Dutchman or Norwegian once in a 
while. Nobody that counts. Fact is, we’re getting like 
Boston — four women to one man ; and when you con- 
sider that we’re getting more particular each year, the 
outlook is — well, it’s dreadful ! ” 

“ It certainly is.” 

“ Marriage is a failure these days for most of us. 
We can’t live on a farm, and can’t get a living in the 
city, and there we are.” She laid her hand on his arm. 
“ I declare, Howard, you’re the same boy you used to 
be. I ain’t a bit afraid of you, for all your success.” 

“ And you’re the same girl ? No, I can’t say that. 
It seems to me you’ve grown more than I have — I 
don’t mean physically, I mean mentally,” he explained, 
as he saw her smile in the defensive way a fleshy girl 
has, alert to ward off a joke. 

They were in the midst of talk, Howard telling one 
of his funny stories, when a wagon clattered up to 
the door, and merry voices called loudly : 

“ Whoa, there, Sampson ! ” 

“ Hullo, the house ! ” 


io8 Main -Travelled Roads 

Rose looked at her father with a smile in her black 
eyes exactly like his. They went to the door. 

“ Hullo ! What’s wanted ? ” 

“ Grant McLane live here ? ” 

u Yup. Right here.” 

A moment later there came a laughing, chattering 
squad of women to the door. Mrs. McLane and Laura 
stared at each other in amazement. Grant went out- 
doors. 

Rose stood at the door as if she were hostess. 

“ Come in, Nettie. Glad to see yeh — glad to see 
yeh ! Mrs. Mcllvaine, come right in ! Take a seat. 
Make yerself to home, do f And Mrs. Peavey ! Wal, 
I never ! This must be a surprise party. Wal, I 
swan ! How many more o’ ye air they ? ” 

All was confusion, merriment, hand-shakings as Rose 
introduced them in her roguish way. 

“ Folks, this is Mr. Howard McLane of New York. 
He’s an actor, but it hain’t spoiled him a bit as I can 
see. How., this is Nettie Mcllvaine — Wilson that 
was.” 

Howard shook hands with Nettie, a tall, plain girl 
with prominent teeth. 

“ This is Ma Mcllvaine.” 

“She looks just the same,” said Howard, shaking 
her hand and feeling how hard and work-worn it 
was. 

And so amid bustle, chatter, and invitations “ to lay 
off y’r things an’ stay awhile,” the women got disposed 
about the room at last. Those that had rocking-chairs 


Up the Coolly 109 

rocked vigorously to and fro to hide their embarrass- 
ment. They all talked in loud voices. 

Howard felt nervous under this furtive scrutiny. He 
wished that his clothes didn’t look so confoundedly 
dressy. Why didn’t he have sense enough to go and 
buy a fifteen-dollar suit of diagonals for everyday 
wear. 

Rose was the life of the party. Her tongue rattled 
on in the most delightful way. 

“ It’s all Rose and Bill’s doin’s,” Mrs. Mcllvaine 
explained. u They told us to come over and pick up 
anybody we see on the road. So we did.” 

Howard winced a little at her familiarity of tone. 
He couldn’t help it for the life of him. 

“ Well, I wanted to come to-night because I’m going 
awav next week, and I wanted to see how he’d act at 
a surprise-party again,” Rose explained. 

cc Married, I s’pose ? ” said Mrs. Mcllvaine, abruptly. 

“ No, not yet.” 

“ Good land ! Why, y’ mus’ be thirty-five, How. 
Must ’a’ dis’p’inted y’r mam not to have a young ’un 
to call ’er granny.” 

The men came clumping in, talking about haying 
and horses. Some of the older ones Howard knew 
and greeted, but the younger ones were mainly too 
much changed. They were all very ill at ease. Most 
of them were in compromise dress — something lying 
between working “rig” and Sunday dress. Some of 
them had on clean shirts and paper collars, and wore 
their Sunday coats (thick woollen garments) over rough 


I IO 


Main -Travelled Roads 


trousers. Most of them crossed their legs at once, and 
all of them sought the wall and leaned back perilously 
upon the hind legs of their chairs, eyeing Howard 
slowly. 

For the first few minutes the presents were the sub- 
jects of conversation. The women especially spent a 
good deal of talk upon them. 

Howard found himself forced to taking the initiative, 
so he inquired about the crops and about the farms. 

w I see you don’t plough the hills aa we used to. 
And reap ! What a job it used to be. It makes the 
hills more beautiful to have them covered with smooth 
grass and cattle.” 

There was only dead silence to this touching upon 
the idea of beauty. 

u I s’pose it pays reasonably ? ” 

u Not enough to kill,” said one of the younger men. 
“You c’n see that by the houses we live in — that is, 
most of us. A few that came in early an’ got land 
cheap, like Mcllvaine, here — he got a lift that the rest 
of us can’t get.” 

“ I’m a free-trader, myself,” said one young fellow, 
blushing and looking away as Howard turned and said 
cheerily : 

“So’m I.” 

The rest seemed to feel that this was a tabooed sub- 
ject — a subject to be talked out of doors, where a man 
could prance about and yell and do justice to it. 

Grant sat silently in the kitchen doorway, not saying 
a word, not looking at his brother. 


Ill 


Up the Coolly 

ct Well, I don’t never use hot vinegar for mine,” 
Mrs. Mcllvaine was heard to say. u I jest use hot 
water, and I rinse ’em out good, and set ’em bottom-side 
up in the sun. I do’ know but what hot vinegar would 
be more cleansin’.” 

Rose had the younger folks in a giggle with a droll 
telling of a joke on herself. 

u How d’ y’ stop ’em from laffin’ ? ” 

“I let ’em laugh. Oh, my school is a disgrace — 
so one director says. But I like to see children laugh. 
It broadens their cheeks.” 

“Yes, that’s all hand-work.” Laura was showing 
the baby’s Sunday clothes. 

“ Goodness Peter ! How do you find time to do so 
much ? ” 

u I take time.” 

Howard, being the lion of the evening, tried his best 
to be agreeable. He kept near his mother, because it 
afforded her so much pride and satisfaction, and because 
he was obliged to keep away from Grant, who had 
begun to talk to the men. Howard talked mainly about 
their affairs, but still was forced more and more into 
telling of his life in the city. As he told of the theatre 
and the concerts, a sudden change fell upon them ; they 
grew sober, and he felt deep down in the hearts of these 
people a melancholy which was expressed only illusively 
with little tones or sighs. Their gayety was fitful. 

They were hungry for the world, for life — these 
young people. Discontented, and yet hardly daring to 
acknowledge it j indeed, few of them could have made 


1 1 2 


Main -Travelled Roads 


definite statement of their dissatisfaction. The older 
people felt it less. They practically said, with a sigh of 
pathetic resignation : 

u Well, I don’t expect ever to see these things now .” 

A casual observer would have said, “ What a pleasant 
bucolic — this little surprise-party of welcome ! ” But 
Howard, with his native ear and eye, had no such pleas- 
ing illusion. He knew too well these suggestions of 
despair and bitterness. He knew that, like the smile of 
the slave, this cheerfulness was self-defence ; deep down 
was another unsatisfied ego. 

Seeing Grant talking with a group of men over by the 
kitchen door, he crossed over slowly and stood listening. 
Wesley Cosgrove — a tall, raw-boned young fellow with 
a grave, almost tragic face — was saying : 

“ Of course I ain’t. Who is ? A man that’s satis- 
fied to live as we do is a fool.” 

“The worst of it is,” said Grant, without seeing 
Howard, “a man can’t get out of it during his lifetime, 
and / don’t know that he’ll have any chance in the 
next — the speculator ’ll be there ahead of us.” 

The rest laughed, but Grant went on grimly : 

u Ten years ago Wess, here, could have got land in 
Dakota pretty easy, but now it’s about all a feller’s life’s 
worth to try it. I tell you things seem shuttin’ down on 
us fellers.” 

u Plenty o’ land to rent,” suggested some one. 

“ Yes, in terms that skin a man alive. More than 
that, farmin’ ain’t so free a life as it used to be. This 
cattle-raisin’ and butter-makin’ makes a nigger of a man. 


1 *3 


Up the Coolly 

Binds him right down to the grindstone and he gets 
nothin’ out of it — that’s what rubs it in. He simply 
wallers around in the manure for somebody else. I’d 
like to know what a man’s life is worth who lives 
as we do ? How much higher is it than the lives the 
niggers used to live ? ” 

These brutally bald words made Howard thrill with 
emotion like the reading of some great tragic poem. A 
silence fell on the group. 

“ That’s the God’s truth, Grant,” said young Cos- 
grove, after a pause. 

“A man like me is helpless,” Grant was saying. 
“Just like a fly in a pan of molasses. There’s no 
escape for him. The more he tears around the more 
liable he is to rip his legs off.” 

u What can he do ? ” 

“ Nothin’.” 

The men listened in silence. 

“ Oh, come, don’t talk politics all night ! ” cried Rose, 
breaking in. “ Come, let’s have a dance. Where’s 
that fiddle ? ” 

“ Fiddle ! ” cried Howard, glad of a chance to laugh. 
“ Well, now ! Bring out that fiddle. Is it William’s ? ” 

“Yes, pap’s old fiddle.” 

“ O Gosh ! he don’t want to hear me play,” protested 
William. “ He’s heard s’ many fiddlers.” 

“ Fiddlers ! I’ve heard a thousand violinists, but not 
fiddlers. Come, give us 1 Honest John.’ ” 

William took the fiddle in his work-calloused and 
crooked hands and began tuning it. The group at the 


1 14 Main -Travelled Roads 

kitchen door turned to listen, their faces lighting up a 
little. Rose tried to get a w set ” on the floor. 

“ Oh, good land ! ” said some. M We’re all tuckered 
out. What makes you so anxious ? ” 

u She wants a chance to dance with the New Yorker.” 

“ That’s it, exactly,” Rose admitted. 

“Wal, if you’d churned and mopped and cooked for 
hayin’ hands as I have to-day, you wouldn’t be so full 
o’ nonsense.” 

“ Oh, bother ! Life’s short. Come, quick, get Bettie 
out. Come, Wess, never mind your hobby-horse.” 

By incredible exertion she got a set on the floor, and 
William got the fiddle in tune. Howard looked across 
at Wesley, and thought the change in him splendidly 
dramatic. His face was lighted with a timid, depre- 
cating, boyish smile. Rose could do anything with him. 

William played some of the old tunes that had a thou- 
sand associated memories in Howard’s brain, memories 
of harvest-moons, of melon-feasts, and of clear, cold 
winter nights. As he danced, his eyes filled with a 
tender light. He came closer to them all than he had 
been able to do before. Grant had gone out into the 
kitchen. 

After two or three sets had been danced, the company 
took seats and could not be stirred again. So Laura 
and Rose disappeared for a few moments, and returning, 
served strawberries and cream, which Laura said she 
“just happened to have in the house.” 

And then William played again. His fingers, now 
grown more supple, brought out clearer, firmer tones. 


II S 


Up the Coolly 

As he played, silence fell on these people. The magic 
of music sobered every face ; the women looked older 
and more careworn, the men slouched sullenly in their 
chairs, or leaned back against the wall. 

It seemed to Howard as if the spirit of tragedy had 
entered this house. Music had always been William’s 
unconscious expression of his unsatisfied desires. He 
was never melancholy except when he played. Then 
his eyes grew sombre, his drooping face full of 
shadows. 

He played on slowly, softly, wailing Scotch tunes and 
mournful Irish love songs. He seemed to find in these 
melodies, and especially in a wild, sweet, low-keyed 
negro song, some expression for his indefinable inner 
melancholy. 

He played on, forgetful of everybody, his long beard 
sweeping the violin, his toil-worn hands marvellously 
obedient to his will. 

At last he stopped, looked up with a faint, apologetic 
smile, and said with a sigh : 

u Well, folkses, time to go home.” 

The going was quiet. Not much laughing. Howard 
stood at the door and said good-night to them all, his 
heart very tender. 

“ Come and see us,” they said. 

u I will,” he replied cordially. u I’ll try and get 
around to see everybody, and talk over old times, before 
I go back.” 

After the wagons had driven out of the yard, Howard 
turned and put his arm about his mother’s neck. 


Main -Travelled Roads 


ii 6 

“ Tired ? ” 

cc A little.” 

“ Well, now good night. I’m going for a little stroll.” 

His brain was too active to sleep. He kissed his 
mother good-night, and went out into the road, his hat 
in his hand, the cool moist wind on his hair. 

It was very dark, the stars being partly hidden by a 
thin vapor. On each side the hills rose, every line 
familiar as the face of an old friend. A whippoorwill 
called occasionally from the hillside, and the spasmodic 
jangle of a bell now and then told of some cow’s battle 
with the mosquitoes. 

As he walked, he pondered upon the tragedy he had 
rediscovered in these people’s lives. Out here under 
the inexorable spaces of the sky, a deep distaste of his 
own life took possession of him. He felt like giving it 
all up. He thought of the infinite tragew of these 
lives which the world loves to call peaceful »id pastoral. 
His mind went out in the aim to help t* m. What 
could he do to make life better worth living ? Nothing. 

They must live and die practically as he saw them 
to-night. 

And yet he knew this was a mood, and that in a few 
hours the love and the habit of life would come back 
upon him and upon them ; that he would go back to 
the city in a few days ; that these people would live on 
and make the best of it. 

“ I'll make the best of it,” he said at last, and his 
thought came back to his mother and Grant. 


Up the Coolly 


ll l 


IV 

The next day was a rainy day ; not a shower, but a 
steady rain — an unusual thing in midsummer in the 
West. A cold, dismal day in the fireless, colorless 
farmhouses. It came to Howard in that peculiar 
reaction which surely comes during a visit of this 
character, when thought is a weariness, when the visitor 
longs for his own familiar walls and pictures and books, 
and longs to meet his friends, feeling at the same time 
the tragedy of life which makes friends nearer and more 
congenial than blood-relations. 

Howard ate his breakfast alone, save Baby and Laura 
its mother going about the room. Baby and mother 
alike insisted on feeding him to death. Already dyspep- 
tic pangs were setting in. 

cc Now ain’t there something more I can — ” 

“ Good heavens ! No ! ” he cried in dismay. u I’m 
likely to die of dyspepsia now. This honey and milk, 
and these delicious hot biscuits — ” 

u I’m afraid it ain’t much like the breakfasts you have 
in the city.” 

“Well, no, it ain’t,” he confessed. “But this is 
the kind a man needs when he lives in the open air.” 

She sat down opposite him, with her elbows on 
the table, her chin in her palm, her eyes full of 
shadows. 

“ I’d like to go to a city once. I never saw a town 
bigger’n La Crosse. I’ve never seen a play, but I’ve 


Main -Travelled Roads 


1 1 8 

read of ’em in the magazines. It must be wonderful ; 
they say they have wharves and real ships coming up to 
the wharf, and people getting off and on. How do they 
do it ? ” 

u Oh, that’s too long a story to tell. It’s a lot of 
machinery and paint and canvas. If I told you how it 
was done, you wouldn’t enjoy it so well when you come 
on and see it.” 

cc Do you ever expect to see me in New York ? ” 

u Why, yes. Why not ? I expect Grant to come 
on and bring you all some day, especially Tonikins here. 
Tonikins, you hear, sir ? I expect you to come on you’ 
forf birfday, sure.” He tried thus to stop the woman’s 
gloomy confidence. 

“ I hate farm-life,” she went on with a bitter inflec- 
tion. “ It’s nothing but fret, fret, and work the whole 
time, never going any place, never seeing anybody but a 
lot of neighbors just as big fools as you are. I spend 
my time fighting flies and washing dishes and churning. 
I’m sick of it all.” 

Howard was silent. What could he say to such an 
indictment ? The ceiling swarmed with flies which the 
cold rain had driven to seek the warmth of the kitchen. 
The gray rain was falling with a dreary sound outside, 
and down the kitchen stove-pipe an occasional drop fell 
on the stove with a hissing, angry sound. 

The young wife went on with a deeper note : 

u I lived in La Crosse two years, going to school, 
and I know a little something of what city life is. If 
I was a man, I bet I wouldn’t wear my life out on a 


Up the Coolly 119 

farm, as Grant does. I’d get away and I’d do some- 
thing. I wouldn’t care what, but I’d get away.” 

There was a certain volcanic energy back of all the 
woman said, that made Howard feel she would make 
the attempt. She did not know that the struggle for a 
place to stand on this planet was eating the heart and 
soul out of men and women in the city, just as in the 
country. But he could say nothing. If he had said in 
conventional phrase, sitting there in his soft clothing, 
u We must make the best of it all,” the woman could 
justly have thrown the dish-cloth in his face. He could 
say nothing. 

M I was a fool for ever marrying,” she went on, while 
the baby pushed a chair across the room. “ I made a 
decent living teaching, I was free to come and go, my 
money was my own. Now I’m tied right down to a 
churn or a dish-pan, I never have a cent of my own. 
He’s growlin’ ’round half the time, and there’s no chance 
of his ever being different.” 

She stopped with a bitter sob in her throat. She 
forgot she was talking to her husband’s brother. She 
was conscious only of his sympathy. 

As if a great black cloud had settled down upon him, 
Howard felt it all — the horror, hopelessness, imminent 
tragedy of it all. The glory of nature, the bounty and 
splendor of the sky, only made it the more benumbing. 
He thought of a sentence Millet once wrote : 

u I see very well the aureole of the dandelions, and 
the sun also, far down there behind the hills, flinging his 
glory upon the clouds. But not alone that — I see in 


120 


Main -Travelled Roads 


the plains the smoke of the tired horses at the plough, 
or, on a stony-hearted spot of ground, a back-broken 
man trying to raise himself upright for a moment to 
breathe. The tragedy is surrounded by glories — that 
is no invention of mine.” 

Howard arose abruptly and went back to his little 
bedroom, where he walked up and down the floor till he 
was calm enough to write, and then he sat down and 
poured it all out to “Dearest Margaret,” and his first 
sentence was this : 

w If it were not for you (just to let you know the 
mood I’m in) — if it were not for you, and I had the 
world in my hands, I’d crush it like a puff-ball ; evil so 
predominates, suffering is so universal and persistent, 
happiness so fleeting and so infrequent.” 

He wrote on for two hours, and by the time he had 
sealed and directed several letters he felt calmer, but 
still terribly depressed. The rain was still falling, 
sweeping down from the half-seen hills, wreathing the 
wooded peaks with a gray garment of mist, and filling 
the valley with a whitish cloud. 

It fell around the house drearily. It ran down into 
the tubs placed to catch it, dripped from the mossy 
pump, and drummed on the upturned milk-pails, and 
upon the brown and yellow beehives under the maple 
trees. The chickens seemed depressed, but the irrepress- 
ible bluejay screamed amid it all, with the same insolent 
spirit, his plumage untarnished by the wet. The barn- 
yard showed a horrible mixture of mud and mire, 
through which Howard caught glimpses of the men, 


121 


Up the Coolly 

slumping to and fro without more additional protection 
than a ragged coat and a shapeless felt hat. 

In the sitting room where his mother sat sewing there 
was not an ornament, save the etching he had brought. 
The clock stood on a small shelf, its dial so much 
defaced that one could not tell the time of day; and 
when it struck, it was with noticeably disproportionate 
deliberation, as if it wished to correct any mistake into 
which the family might have fallen by reason of its 
illegible dial. 

The paper on the walls showed the first concession 
of the Puritans to the Spirit of Beauty, and was made 
up of a heterogeneous mixture of flowers of unheard-of 
shapes and colors, arranged in four different ways along 
the wall. There were no books, no music, and only a 
few newspapers in sight — a bare, blank, cold, drab- 
colored shelter from the rain, not a home. Nothing 
cosey, nothing heart-warming; a grim and horrible shed. 

cc What are they doing ? It can’t be they’re at work 
such a day as this,” Howard said, standing at the window. 

u They find plenty to do, even on rainy days,” an- 
swered his mother. “ Grant always has some job to 
set the men at. It’s the only way to live.” 

“ I’ll go out and see them.” He turned suddenly. 
“ Mother, why should Grant treat me so ? Have I 
deserved it ? ” 

Mrs. McLane sighed in pathetic hopelessness. u I 
don’t know, Howard. I’m worried about Grant. He 
gets more an’ more down-hearted an’ gloomy every 
day. Seems if he’d go crazy. He don’t care how he 


122 


Main -Travelled Roads 


looks any more, won’t dress up on Sunday. Days an 
days he’ll go aroun’ not sayin’ a word. I was in hopes 
you could help him, Howard.” 

“ My coming seems to have had an opposite effect. 
He hasn’t spoken a word to me, except when he had 
to, since I came. Mother, what do you say to going 
home with me to New York ? ” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t do that ! ” she cried in terror. “ I 
couldn’t live in a big city — never ! ” 

u There speaks the truly rural mind,” smiled Howard 
at his mother, who was looking up at him through her 
glasses with a pathetic forlornness which sobered him 
again. “ Why, mother, you could live in Orange, New 
Jersey, or out in Connecticut, and be just as lonesome 
as you are here. You wouldn’t need to live in the city. 
I could see you then every day or two.” 

“Well, I couldn’t leave Grant an’ the baby, anyway,” 
she replied, not realizing how one could live in New 
Jersey and do business daily in New York. 

u Well, then, how would you like to go back into the 
old house ? ” 

The patient hands fell to the lap, the dim eyes fixed 
in searching glance on his face. There was a wistful 
cry in the voice. 

u Oh, Howard ! Do you mean — ” 

He came and sat down by her, and put his arm about 
her and hugged her hard. u I mean, you dear, good, 
patient, work-weary old mother, I’m going to buy back 
the old farm and put you in it.” 

There was no refuge for her now except in tears, and 


Up the Coolly 123 

she put up her thin, trembling old hands about his neck, 
and cried in that easy, placid, restful way age has. 

Howard could not speak. His throat ached with re- 
morse and pity. He saw his forgetfulness of them all 
once more without relief, — the black thing it was ! 

“There, there, mother, don’t cry !” he said, torn with 
anguish by her tears. Measured by man’s tearlessness, 
her weeping seemed terrible to him. u I didn’t realize 
how things were going here. It was all my fault — or, 
at least, most of it. Grant’s letter didn’t reach me. I 
thought you were still on the old farm. But no matter; 
it’s all over now. Come, don’t cry any more, mother 
dear. I’m going to take care of you now.” 

It had been years since the poor, lonely woman had 
felt such warmth of love. Her sons had been like her 
husband, chary of expressing their affection ; and like 
most Puritan families, there was little of caressing among 
them. Sitting there with the rain on the roof and driv- 
ing through the trees, they planned getting back into the 
old house. Howard’s plan seemed to her full of splen- 
dor and audacity. She began to understand his power 
and wealth now, as he put it into concrete form before 
her. 

“ I wish I could eat Thanksgiving dinner there with 
you,” he said at last, “but it can’t be thought of. How- 
ever, I’ll have you all in there before I go home. I’m 
going out now and tell Grant. Now don’t worry any 
more; I’m going to fix it all up with him, sure.” He 
gave her a parting hug. 

Laura advised him not to attempt to get to the barn; 


124 


Main -Travelled Roads 


but as he persisted in going, she hunted up an old rubber 
coat for him. “You’ll mire down and spoil your shoes,” 
she said, glancing at his neat calf gaiters. 

u Darn the difference ! ” he laughed in his old way. 
“ Besides, I’ve got rubbers.” 

“ Better go round by the fence,” she advised, as he 
stepped out into the pouring rain. 

How wretchedly familiar it all was ! The miry cow- 
yard, with the hollow trampled out around the horse- 
trough, the disconsolate hens standing under the wagons 
and sheds, a pig wallowing across its sty, and for at- 
mosphere the desolate, falling rain. It was so familiar 
he felt a pang of the old rebellious despair which seized 
him on such days in his boyhood. 

Catching up courage, he stepped out on the grass, 
opened the gate and entered the barn-yard. A narrow 
ribbon of turf ran around the fence, on which he could 
walk by clinging with one hand to the rough boards. In 
this way he slowly made his way around the periphery, 
and came at last to the open barn-door without much 
harm. 

It was a desolate interior. In the open floor-way 
Grant, seated upon a half-bushel, was mending a harness. 
The old man was holding the trace in his hard brown 
hands ; the boy was lying on a wisp of hay. It was a 
small barn, and poor at that. There was a bad smell, 
as of dead rats, about it, and the rain fell through the 
shingles here and there. To the right, and below, the 
horses stood, looking up with their calm and beautiful 
eyes, in which the whole scene was idealized. 


Up the Coolly 125 

Grant looked up an instant, and then went on with 
his work. 

“Did yeh wade through?” grinned Lewis, exposing 
his broken teeth. 

“ No, I kinder circumambiated the pond.” He sat 
down on the little tool-box near Grant. “Your barn 
is a good deal like that in ‘The Arkansaw Traveller.’ 
Needs a new roof, Grant.” His voice had a pleas- 
ant sound, full of the tenderness of the scene through 
which he had just been. “In fact, you need a new 
barn.” 

“ I need a good many things more’n I’ll ever get,” 
Grant replied shortly. 

“ How long did you say you’d Teen on this farm ? ” 

“ Three years this fall.” 

“ I don’t s’pose you’ve been able to think of buying 
— Now hold on, Grant,” he cried, as Grant threw his 
head back. “ For God’s sake, don’t get mad again ! 
Wait till you see what I’m driving at.” 

“ I don’t see what you’re drivin’ at, and I don’t care. 
All I want you to do is to let us alone. That ought to 
be easy enough for you.” 

“ I tell you, I didn’t get your letter. I didn’t know 
you’d lost the old farm.” Howard was determined not 
to quarrel. “ I didn’t suppose — ” 

“ You might ’a’ come to see.” 

“ Well, I’ll admit that. All I can say in excuse is 
that since I got to managing plays I’ve kept looking 
ahead to making a big hit and getting a barrel of money 
— just as the old miners used to hope and watch. Be- 


126 


Main -Travelled Roads 


sides, you don’t understand how much pressure there is 
on me. A hundred different people pulling and hauling 
to have me go here or go there, or do this or do that. 
When it isn’t yachting, it’s canoeing, or — 

He stopped. His heart gave a painful t’nrob, and a 
shiver ran through him. Again he saw his life, so rich, 
so bright, so free, set over against the routine life in the 
little low kitchen, the barren sitting room, and this still 
more horrible barn. Why should his brother sit there 
in wet and grimy clothing, mending a broken trace, 
while he enjoyed all the light and civilization of the age ? 

He looked at Grant’s fine figure, his great, strong 
face ; recalled his deep, stern, masterful voice. u Am 
I so much superior to him ? Have not circumstances 
made me and destroyed him ? ” 

“ Grant, for God’s sake, don’t sit there like that ! 
I’ll admit I’ve been negligent and careless. I can’t 
understand it all myself. But let me do something for 
you now. I’ve sent to New York for five thousand 
dollars. I’ve got terms on the old farm. Let me see 
you all back there once more before I return.” 
u I don’t want any of your charity.” 
w It ain’t charity. It’s only justice to you.” He 
rose. “ Come, now, let’s get at an understanding, 
Grant. I can’t go on this way. I can’t go back to 
New York and leave you here like this.” 

Grant rose too. M I tell you, I don’t ask your help. 
You can’t fix this thing up with money. If you’ve got 
more brains’n I have, why, it’s all right. I ain’t got 
any right to take anything that I don’t earn.” 


127 


Up the Coolly 

u But you don’t get what you do earn. It ain’t your 
fault. I begin to see it now. Being the oldest, I had 
the best chance. I was going to town to school while 
you were ploughing and husking corn. Of course I 
thought you’d be going soon yourself. I had three years 
the start of you. If you’d been in my place, you might 
have met a man like Cook, you might have gone to New 
York and have been where I am.” 

“Well, it can’t be helped now. So drop it.” 

“ But it must be helped ! ” Howard said, pacing about, 
his hands in his coat-pockets. Grant had stopped work, 
and was gloomily looking out of the door at a pig nosing 
in the mud for stray grains of wheat at the granary 
door. The old man and the boy quietly withdrew. 

“ Good God ! I see it all now,” Howard burst out 
in an impassioned tone. u I went ahead with my educa- 
tion, got my start in life, then father died, and you took 
up his burdens. Circumstances made me and crushed 
you. That’s all there is about that. Luck made me 
and cheated you. It ain’t right.” 

His voice faltered. Both men were now oblivious 
of their companions and of the scene. Both were think- 
ing of the days when they both planned great things in 
the way of education, two ambitious, dreamful boys. 

“ I used to think of you, Grant, when I pulled out 
Monday morning in my best suit — cost fifteen dollars 
in those days.” He smiled a little at the recollection. 
“ While you in overalls and an old c wammus ’ were 
going out into the field to plough, or husk corn in the 
mud. It made me feel uneasy, but, as I said, I kept 


128 Main -Travelled Roads 

saying to myself, 4 His turn’ll come in a year or two.* 
But it didn’t.” 

His voice choked. He walked to the door, stood a 
moment, came back. His eyes were full of tears. 

“ I tell you, old man, many a time in my boarding- 
house down to the city, when I thought of the jolly 
times I was having, my heart hurt me. But I said, 
4 It’s no use to cry. Better go on and do the best you 
can, and then help them afterward. There’ll only be 
one more miserable member of the family if you stay at 
home.’ Besides, it seemed right to me to have first 
chance. But I never thought you’d be shut off, Grant. 
If I had, I never would have gone on. Come, old man, 
I want you to believe that.” His voice was very tender 
now and almost humble. 

“ I don’t know as I blame you for that, How.,” said 
Grant, slowly. It was the first time he had called How- 
ard by his boyish nickname. His voice was softer, too, 
and higher in key. But he looked steadily away. 

44 1 went to New York. People liked my work. I 
was very successful, Grant ; more successful than you 
realize. I could have helped you at any time. There’s 
no use lying about it. And I ought to have done it ; 
but some way — it’s no excuse, I don’t mean it for an 
excuse, only an explanation — some way I got in with 
the boys. I don’t mean I was a drinker and all that. 
But I bought pictures and kept a horse and a yacht, and 
of course I had to pay my share of all expeditions, and 
— oh, what’s the use ! ” 

He broke off, turned, and threw his open palms out 


Up the Coolly 129 

toward his brother, as if throwing aside the last attempt 
at an excuse. 

“ I did neglect you, and it’s a damned shame ! and 
I ask your forgiveness. Come, old man ! ” 

He held out his hand, and Grant slowly approached 
and took it. There was a little silence. Then How- 
ard went on, his voice trembling, the tears on his face. 

u I want you to let me help you, old man. That’s 
the way to forgive me. Will you ? ” 
u Yes, if you can help me.” 

Howard squeezed his hand. “That’s all right, old 
man. Now you make me a boy again. Course I can 
help you. I’ve got ten — ” 

w I don’t mean that, How.” Grant’s voice was very 
grave. “ Money can’t give me a chance now.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

cc I mean life ain’t worth very much to me. I’m too 
old to take a new start. I’m a dead failure. I’ve come 
to the conclusion that life’s a failure for ninety-nine per 
cent of us. You can’t help me now. It’s too late.” 

The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, 
the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat 
suit ; the other tragic, sombre in his softened mood, his 
large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed with sun and 
scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like sabre-cuts 
on a veteran, the record of his battles. 

K 




» 






























- 






















AMONG THE CORN-ROWS 


“But the road sometimes passes a rich 
meadow , where the songs of larks and 
bobolinks and blackbirds are tangled ** 
















AMONG THE CORN-ROWS 


Rob held up his hands, from which the dough de- 
pended in ragged strings. 

u Biscuits,” he said, with an elaborate working of his 
jaws, intended to convey the idea that they were going 
to be specially delicious. 

Seagraves laughed, but did not enter the shanty door. 
“ How do you like baching it ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t mention it ! ” entreated Rob, mauling the 
dough again. u Come in an’ sit down. What in thun- 
der y’ standin’ out there for ? ” 

“ Oh, I’d rather be where I can see the prairie. 
Great weather ! ” 

“ Im- mense ! ” 

“ How goes breaking ? ” 

“ Tip-top ! A leetle dry now ; but the bulls pull the 
plough through two acres a day. How’s things in 
Boomtown ? ” 

“ Oh, same old grind.” 

“ Judge still lyin’ ? ” 

“ Still at it.” 

“ Major Mullens still swearin’ to it ? ” 

“ You hit it like a mallet. Railroad schemes are 
thicker ’n prairie-chickens. You’ve got grit, Rob. I 
don’t have anything but crackers and sardines over to 
my shanty, and here you are making soda-biscuit.” 

*33 


134 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“I have t’ do it. Couldn’t break if I didn’t. You 
editors c’n take things easy, lay around on the prairie, 
and watch the plovers and medderlarks ; but we settlers 
have got to work.” 

Leaving Rob to sputter over his cooking, Seagraves 
took his slow way off down toward the oxen grazing in 
a little hollow. The scene was characteristically, won- 
derfully beautiful. It was about five o’clock in a day 
in late June, and the level plain was green and yellow, 
and infinite in reach as a sea; the lowering sun was 
casting over its distant swells a faint impalpable mist, 
through which the breaking teams on the neighboring 
claims ploughed noiselessly, as figures in a dream. The 
whistle of gophers, the faint, wailing, fluttering cry of 
the falling plover, the whir of the swift-winged prairie- 
pigeon, or the quack of a lonely duck, came through 
the shimmering air. The lark’s infrequent whistle, 
piercingly sweet, broke from the longer grass in the 
swales near by. No other climate, sky, plain, could 
produce the same unnamable weird charm. No tree 
to wave, no grass to rustle, scarcely a sound of domestic 
life ; only the faint melancholy soughing of the wind 
in the short grass, and the voices of the wild things of 
the prairie. 

Seagraves, an impressionable young man (junior editor 
of the Boomtown Spike ), threw himself down on the sod, 
pulled his hat-rim down over his eyes, and looked away 
over the plain. It was the second year of Boomtown’s 
existence, and Seagraves had not yet grown restless 
under its monotony. Around him the gophers played 


Among the Corn-Rows 135 

saucily. Teams were moving here and there across the 
sod, with a peculiar noiseless, effortless motion, that 
made them seem as calm, lazy, and insubstantial as the 
mist through which they made their way; even the 
sound of passing wagons seemed a sort of low, well-fed, 
self-satisfied chuckle. 

Seagraves, “ holding down a claim ” near Rob, had 
come to see his neighboring “bach” because feeling the 
need of company ; but now that he was near enough to 
hear him prancing about getting supper, he was content 
to lie alone on a slope of the green sod. 

The silence of the prairie at night was well-nigh 
terrible. Many a night, as Seagraves lay in his bunk 
against the side of his cabin, he would strain his ear to 
hear the slightest sound, and be listening thus sometimes 
for minutes before the squeak of a mouse or the step 
of a passing fox came as a relief to the aching sense. 
In the daytime, however, and especially on a morning, 
the prairie was another thing. The pigeons, the larks, 
the cranes, the multitudinous voices of the ground-birds 
and snipes and insects, made the air pulsate with sound 
— a chorus that died away into an infinite murmur of 
music. 

“ Hello, Seagraves ! ” yelled Rob from the door. 
“ The biscuit are ’most done.” 

Seagraves did not speak, only nodded his head, and 
slowly rose. The faint clouds in the west were getting 
a superb flame-color above and a misty purple below, 
and the sun had pierced them with lances of yellow 
light. As the air grew denser with moisture, the sounds 


136 Main -Travelled Roads 

of neighboring life began to reach the ear. Children 
screamed and laughed, and afar off a woman was singing 
a lullaby. The rattle of wagons and the voices of men 
speaking to their teams multiplied. Ducks in a neigh- 
boring lowland were quacking sociably. The whole 
scene took hold upon Seagraves with irresistible power. 

u It is American,” he exclaimed. u No other land 
or time can match this mellow air, this wealth of color, 
much less the strange social conditions of life on this 
sunlit Dakota prairie.” 

Rob, though visibly affected by the scene also, 
couldn’t let his biscuit spoil or go without proper 
attention. 

w Say, ain’t y’ cornin’ t’ grub ? ” he asked impatiently. 

“In a minute,” replied his friend, taking a last wistful 
look at the scene. “ I want one more look at the land- 
scape.” 

“Landscape be blessed! If you’d been breakin’ all 
day — Come, take that stool an’ draw up.” 

“ No ; I’ll take the candle-box.” 

“ Not much. I know what manners are, if I am a 
bull-driver.” 

Seagraves took the three-legged and rather precarious- 
looking stool and drew up to the table, which was a flat 
broad box nailed up against the side of the wall, with 
two strips of board spiked at the outer corners for legs. 

“ How’s that f’r a lay-out ? ” Rob inquired proudly. 

“Well, you have spread yourself! Biscuit and 
canned peaches and sardines and cheese. Why, this is 
— is — prodigal.” 


i37 


Among the Corn-Rows 

“ It ain’t nothin’ else.” 

Rob was from one of the finest counties of Wiscon- 
sin, over toward Milwaukee. He was of German par- 
entage, a middle-sized, cheery, wide-awake, good-looking 
young fellow — a typical claim-holder. He was always 
confident, jovial, and full of plans for the future. He 
had dug his own well, built his own shanty, washed and 
mended his own clothing. He could do anything, and 
do it well. He had a fine field of wheat, and was finish- 
ing the ploughing of his entire quarter-section. 

u This is what I call settin’ under a feller’s own vine 
an’ fig tree ” — after Seagraves’ compliments — “ an’ I 
like it. I’m my own boss. No man can say ‘come 
here ’ ’r c go there ’ to me. I get up when I’m a min’ 
to, an’ go t’ bed when I’m a min’ to.” 

“ Some drawbacks, I s’pose ? ” 

u Yes. Mice, f’r instance, give me a devilish lot o’ 
trouble. They get into my flour-barrel, eat up my 
cheese, an’ fall into my well. But it ain’t no use t’ 
swear.” 

Seagraves quoted an old rhyme : 

“ ‘ The rats and the mice they made such a strife 
He had to go to London to buy him a wife.’ ” 

u Don’t blush. I’ve probed your secret thought.” 

“ Well, to tell the honest truth,” said Rob, a little 
sheepishly, leaning across the table, w I ain’t satisfied 
with my style o’ cookin’. It’s good, but a little too plain, 
y’ know. I’d like a change. It ain’t much fun to break 
all day, and then go to work an’ cook y’r own supper.” 


Main -Travelled Roads 


138 

w No, I should say not.” 

“ This fall I’m going back to Wisconsin. Girls are 
thick as huckleberries back there, and I’m goin’ t’ bring 
one back, now you hear me.” 

“ Good ! That’s the plan,” laughed Seagraves, 
amused at a certain timid and apprehensive look in his 
companion’s eye. “Just think what a woman would 
do to put this shanty in shape ; and think how nice it 
would be to take her arm and saunter out after supper, 
and look at the farm, and plan, and lay out gardens and 
paths, and tend the chickens ! ” 

Rob’s manly and self-reliant nature had the settler’s 
typical buoyancy and hopefulness, as well as a certain 
power of analysis, which enabled him now to say : “ The 
fact is, we fellers holdin’ down claims out here ain’t fools 
clear to the vine. We know a couple o’ things. Now I 
didn’t leave Waupac County f’r fun. Did y’ ever see 
Waupac ? Well, it’s one o’ the handsomest counties 
the sun ever shone on, full o’ lakes and rivers and groves 
of timber. I miss ’em all out here, and I miss the boys 
an’ girls ; but they wa’n’t no chance there f r a feller. 
Land that was good was so blamed high you couldn’t 
touch it with a ten-foot pole from a balloon. Rent was 
high, if you wanted t’ rent, an’ so a feller like me 
had t’ get out, an’ now I’m out here, I’m goin’ t’ make 
the most of it. Another thing,” he went on, after a 
pause — w we fellers workin’ out back there got more 
’n’ more like hands , an’ less like human beings. Y’ 
know, Waupac is a kind of a summer resort, and the 
people that use’ t’ come in summers looked down on us 


139 


Among the Corn-Rows 

cusses in the fields an’ shops. I couldn’t stand it. By 
God ! ” he said, with a sudden impulse of rage quite 
unusual, “ I’d rather live on an iceberg and claw crabs 
f r a livin’ than have some feller passin’ me on the road 
an’ callin’ me ‘ fellah ! ’ ” 

Seagraves knew what he meant, but listened in aston- 
ishment at his outburst. 

w I consider myself a sight better ’n any man who 
lives on somebody else’s hard work. I’ve never had a 
cent I didn’t earn with them hands.” He held them 
up and broke into a grin. “ Beauties, ain’t they ? But 
they never wore gloves that some other poor cuss 
earned.” 

Seagraves thought them grand hands, worthy to grasp 
the hand of any man or woman living. 

“Well, so I come West, just like a thousand other 
fellers, to get a start where the cussed European aris- 
tocracy hadn’t got a holt on the people. I like it here 
— course I’d like the lakes an’ meadows of Waupac 
better — but I’m my own boss, as I say, and I’m goin’ 
to stay my own boss if I have to live on crackers an’ 
wheat coffee to do it ; that’s the kind of a hair-pin 
I am.” 

In the pause which followed, Seagraves, plunged deep 
into thought by Rob’s words, leaned his head on his 
hand. This working farmer had voiced the modern 
idea. It was an absolute overturn of all the ideas of 
nobility and special privilege born of the feudal past. 

u I’d like to use your idea for an editorial, Rob,” he 
said. 


140 


Main -Travelled Roads 


ct My ideas ! ” exclaimed the astounded host, pausing 
in the act of filling his pipe. “ My ideas ! Why, I 
didn’t know I had any.” 

“ Well, you’ve given me some, anyhow.” 

Seagraves felt that it was a wild, grand upstirring of 
the modern democrat against the aristocrat, against the 
idea of caste and the privilege of living on the labor of 
others. This atom of humanity (how infinitesimal this 
drop in the ocean of humanity !) was feeling the name- 
less longing of expanding personality. He had declared 
rebellion against laws that were survivals of hate and 
prejudice. He had exposed also the native spring of 
the emigrant by uttering the feeling that it is better to be 
an equal among peasants than a servant before nobles. 

“ So I have good reasons Pr liking the country,” Rob 
resumed, in a quiet way. u The soil is rich, the climate 
good so far, an’ if I have a couple o’ decent crops you’ll 
see a neat upright goin’ up here, with a porch and a bay- 
winder.” 

u And you’ll still be living here alone, frying leathery 
slapjacks an’ chopping ’taters and bacon.” 

“ I think I see myself,” drawled Rob, u goin’ around 
all summer wearin’ the same shirt without washin’, an’ 
wipin’ on the same towel four straight weeks, an’ 
wearin’ holes in my socks, an’ eatin’ musty ginger- 
snaps, mouldy bacon, an’ canned Boston beans f’r the 
rest o’ my endurin’ days ! Oh, yes ; I guess not ! ” He 
rose. “Well, see y’ later. Must go water my bulls.” 

As he went off down the slope, Seagraves smiled to 
hear him sing : 


I 4 I 


Among the Corn-Rows 

“I wish that some kind-hearted girl 
Would pity on me take. 

And extricate me from the mess I’m in. 

The angel — how I’d bless her. 

If this her home she’d make. 

In my little old sod shanty on the plain.” 

The boys nearly fell off their chairs in the Western 
House dining room, a few days later, when Rob came 
in to supper with a collar and necktie as the finishing 
touch of a remarkable outfit. 
u Hit him, somebody ! ” 
u It’s a clean collar ! ” 
u He’s started Pr Congress ! ” 

u He’s going to get married,” put in Seagraves, in a 
tone that brought conviction. 

“ What ! ” screamed Jack Adams, O’Neill, and Wil- 
son, in one breath. u That man ? ” 

u That man,” replied Seagraves, amazed at Rob, who 
coolly took his seat, squared his elbows, pressed his 
collar down at the back, and called for the bacon and 
eggs. 

The crowd stared at him in a dead silence. 

“ Where’s he going to do it? ’’asked Jack Adams. 
“ Where’s he going to find a girl ? ” 

“ Ask him,” said Seagraves. 

w I ain’t tellin’,” put in Rob, with his mouth full of 
potato. 

“ You’re afraid of our competition.” 

“ That’s right ; our competition, Jack ; not your com- 
petition. Come, now, Rob, tell us where you found her.” 


142 Main -Travelled Roads 

“ I ain’t found her.” 

“ What ! And yet you’re goin’ away t’ get married ! ” 

“I’m goin’ t’ bring a wife back with me ten days 
fr’m date.” 

“ I see his scheme,” put in Jim Rivers. “ He’s 
goin’ back East somewhere, an’ he’s goin’ to propose to 
every girl he meets.” 

“ Hold on ! ” interrupted Rob, holding up his fork. 
“Ain’t quite right. Every good lookin' girl I meet.” 

“Well, I’ll be blanked!” exclaimed Jack, impres- 
sively ; “ that simply lets me out. Any man with such 
a cheek ought to — ” 

“ Succeed,” interrupted Seagraves. 

“ That’s what I say,” bawled Hank Whiting, the pro- 
prietor of the house. “You fellers ain’t got any enter- 
prise to yeh. Why don’t you go to work an’ help settle 
the country like men ? ’Cause y’ ain’t got no sand. 
Girls are thicker ’n huckleberries back East. I say it’s 
a dum shame ! ” 

“ Easy, Henry,” said the elegant bank-clerk, Wilson, 
looking gravely about through his spectacles. “ I com- 
mend the courage and the resolution of Mr. Rodemaker. 
I pray the lady may not 

‘ Mislike him for his complexion. 

The shadowed livery of the burning sun.’ ,r 

“ Shakespeare,” said Adams, at a venture. 

Wilson turned to Rob. “ Brother in adversity, 
when do you embark another Jason on an untried 
sea ? ” 


Among the Corn-Rows 143 

“ Hay ! ” said Rob, winking at Seagraves. “ Oh, I 
go to-night — night train.” 

“And return ? ” 

w Ten days from date.” 

u I’ll wager a wedding supper he brings a blonde,” 
said Wilson, his clean-cut, languid speech compelling 
attention. 

u Oh, come, now, Wilson ; that’s too thin ! We all 
know that rule about dark man-yin’ light.” 

w I’ll wager she’ll be tall,” continued Wilson. “I’ll 
wager you , friend Rodemaker, she’ll be blonde and 
tall.” 

The rest roared at Rob’s astonishment and confusion. 

The absurdity of it grew, and they went into spasms 
of laughter. But Wilson remained impassive, not the 
twitching of a muscle betraying that he saw anything to 
laugh at in the proposition. 

Mrs. Whiting and the kitchen-girls came in, wonder- 
ing at the merriment. Rob began to get uneasy. 

“ What is it ? What is it ? ” said Mrs. Whiting, a 
jolly little matron. 

Rivers put the case. “ Rob’s on his way back to 
Wisconsin t’ get married, and Wilson has offered to 
bet him that his wife will be a blonde and tall, and Rob 
dassent bet ! ” And they roared again. 

“ Why, the idea ! the man’s crazy ! ” said Mrs. 
Whiting. 

The crowd looked at each other. This was hint 
enough ; they sobered, nodding at each other com- 
miseratingly. 


144 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Aha ! I see ; I understand.” 

u It’s the heat.” 

“ And the Boston beans.” 

“ Let up on him, Wilson. Don’t badger a poor irre- 
sponsible fellow. I thought something was wrong when 
I saw the collar.” 

lc Oh, keep it up ! ” said Rob, a little nettled by their 
evident intention to have fun with him. 

“ Soothe him — soo-o-o-o-the him ! ” said Wilson. 
u Don’t be harsh.” 

Rob rose from the table. “ Go to thunder ! You 
fellows make me tired.” 

u The fit is on him again ! ” 

He rose disgustedly and went out. They followed 
him in single file. The rest of the town “ caught on.” 
Frank Graham heaved an apple at him, and joined the 
procession. Rob went into the store to buy some to- 
bacco. They all followed, and perched like crows on 
the counters till he went out ; then they followed him, 
as before. They watched him check his trunk ; they 
witnessed the purchase of the ticket. The town had 
turned out by this time. 

“ Waupac ! ” announced the one nearest the victim. 

cc Waupac ! ” said the next man, and the word was 
passed along the street up town. 

“Make a note of it,” said Wilson; “Waupac — a 
county where a man’s proposal for marriage is honored 
upon presentation. Sight drafts.” 

Rivers struck up a song, while Rob stood around, 
patiently bearing the jokes of the crowd : 


>45 


Among the Corn-Rows 

“We’re lookin’ rather seedy now. 

While holdin’ down our claims, 

And our vittles are not always of the best. 

And the mice play slyly round us 
As we lay down to sleep 
In our little old tarred shanties on the claim. 

“Yet we rather like the novelty 
Of livin’ in this way. 

Though the bill of fare is often rather tame ; 

And we’re happy as a clam 
On the land of Uncle Sam 
In our little old tarred shanty on the claim.” 

The train drew up at length, to the immense relief 
of Rob, whose stoical resignation was beginning to 
weaken. 

“Don’t y’ wish y’ had sand ? ” he yelled to the crowd, 
as he plunged into the car, thinking he was rid of them 
at last. 

He was mistaken. Their last stroke was to follow 
him into the car, nodding, pointing to their heads, and 
whispering, managing in the half-minute the train stood 
at the platform to set every person in the car staring 
at the “crazy man.” Rob groaned, and pulled his hat 
down over his eyes — an action which confirmed his 
tormentors’ words and made several ladies click their 
tongues in sympathy — “ Tick ! tick ! poor fellow ! ” 

“All abo-o-o-a-rd ! ” said the conductor, grinning his 
appreciation at the crowd, and the train was off. 

“ Oh, won’t we make him groan when he gets back ! ” 


L 


146 Main -Travelled Roads 

said Barney, the young lawyer, who sang the shouting 
tenor. 

“We’ll meet him with the timbrel and the harp. 
Anybody want to wager ? I’ve got two to one on a 
short brunette,” said Wilson. 

II 

« Follow it far enough and it may pass the bend in the river where the 
water laughs eternally over its shallows.” 

A corn-field in July is a sultry place. The soil is 
hot and dry; the wind comes across the lazily murmur- 
ing leaves laden with a warm, sickening smell drawn 
from the rapidly growing, broad-flung banners of the 
corn. The sun, nearly vertical, drops a flood of 
dazzling light upon the field over which the cool 
shadows run, only to make the heat seem the more 
intense. 

Julia Peterson, faint with hunger, was toiling back and 
forth between the corn-rows, holding the handles of the 
double-shovel corn-plough, while her little brother Otto 
rode the steaming horse. Her heart was full of bitter- 
ness, her face flushed with heat, and her muscles aching 
with fatigue. The heat grew terrible. The corn came 
to her shoulders, and not a breath seemed to reach her, 
while the sun, nearing the noon mark, lay pitilessly upon 
her shoulders, protected only by a calico dress. The 
dust rose under her feet, and as she was wet with perspi- 
ration it soiled her till with a woman’s instinctive clean- 
liness, she shuddered. Her head throbbed dangerously. 


147 


Among the Corn-Rows 

What matter to her that the kingbird pitched jovially 
from the maples to catch a wandering bluebottle fly, 
that the robin was feeding its young, that the bobolink 
was singing ? All these things, if she saw them, only 
threw her bondage to labor into greater relief. 

Across the field, in another patch of corn, she could 
see her father — a big, gruff-voiced, wide-bearded Nor- 
wegian — at work also with a plough. The corn must 
be ploughed, and so she toiled on, the tears dropping 
from the shadow of the ugly sun-bonnet she wore. Her 
shoes, coarse and square-toed, chafed her feet ; her hands, 
large and strong, were browned, or, more properly, burnt , 
on the backs by the sun. The horse’s harness “ creak- 
cracked ” as he swung steadily and patiently forward, 
the moisture pouring from his sides, his nostrils distended. 

The field bordered on a road, and on the other side of 
the road ran a river — a broad, clear, shallow expanse at 
that point, and the eyes of the boy gazed longingly at the 
pond and the cool shadow each time that he turned at 
the fence. 

“Say, Jule, I’m goin’ in! Come, can’t I? Come 
— say ! ” he pleaded, as they stopped at the fence to let 
the horse breathe. 

“ I’ve let you go wade twice.” 

“ But that don’t do any good. My legs is all smarty, 
’cause oP Jack sweats so.” The boy turned around on 
the horse’s back and slid back to his rump. “ I can’t 
stand it ! ” he burst out, sliding off and darting under the 
fence. “ Father can’t see.” 

The girl put her elbows on the fence and watched her 


148 


Main -Travelled Roads 


litde brother as he sped away to the pool, throwing off 
his clothes as he ran, whooping with uncontrollable de- 
light. Soon she could hear him splashing about in the 
water a short distance up the stream, and caught glimpses 
of his little shiny body and happy face. How cool that 
water looked ! And the shadows there by the big bass- 
wood ! How that water would cool her blistered feet. 
An impulse seized her, and she squeezed between the 
rails of the fence, and stood in the road looking up and 
down to see that the way was clear. It was not a main- 
travelled road ; no one was likely to come ; why not ? 

She hurriedly took off her shoes and stockings — how 
delicious the cool, soft velvet of the grass ! and sitting 
down on the bank under the great basswood, whose roots 
formed an abrupt bank, she slid her poor blistered, chafed 
feet into the water, her bare head leaned against the huge 
tree-trunk. 

And now, as she rested, the beauty of the scene came 
to her. Over her the wind moved the leaves. A jay 
screamed far off, as if answering the cries of the boy. 
A kingfisher crossed and recrossed the stream with dip- 
ping sweep of his wings. The river sang with its lips 
to the pebbles. The vast clouds went by majestically, 
far above the tree-tops, and the snap and buzzing and 
ringing whir of July insects made a ceaseless, slumberous 
undertone of song solvent of all else. The tired girl for- 
got her work. She began to dream. This would not 
last always. Some one would come to release her from 
such drudgery. This was her constant, tenderest, and 
most secret dream. He would be a Yankee, not a Nor- 


149 


Among the Corn-Rows 

wegian. The Yankees didn’t ask their wives to work in 
the field. He would have a home. Perhaps he’d live 
in town — perhaps a merchant ! And then she thought 
of the drug clerk in Rock River who had looked at 
her — A voice broke in on her dream, a fresh, manly 
voice. 

“ Well, by jinks ! if it ain’t Julia! Just the one I 
wanted to see ! ” 

The girl turned, saw a pleasant-faced young fellow in 
a derby hat and a cutaway suit of diagonals. 

“ Bob Rodemaker ! How come — ” 

She remembered her situation and flushed, looked 
down at the water, and remained perfectly still. 

“ Ain’t you goin’ to shake hands ? Y’ don’t seem 
very glad t’ see me.” 

She began to grow angry. u If you had any eyes, 
you’d see.” 

Rob looked over the edge of the bank, whistled, turned 
away. u Oh, I see ! Excuse me ! Don’t blame yeh a 
bit, though. Good weather f ’r corn,” he went on, look- 
ing up at the trees. w Corn seems to be pretty well for- 
ward,” he continued, in a louder voice, as he walked 
away, still gazing into the air. u Crops is looking first- 
class in Boomtown. Hello ! This Otto ? H’yare, y’ 
little scamp ! Get on to that horse agin. Quick, ’r I’ll 
take y’r skin off an’ hang it on the fence. What y’ been 
doin’?” 

“ Ben in swimmin’. Jimminy, ain’t it fun ! When 
’d y’ get back ? ” said the boy, grinning. 

“ Never you mind ! ” replied Rob, leaping the fence 


150 


Main -Travelled Roads 


by laying his left hand on the top rail. “ Get on to 
that horse.” He tossed the boy up on the horse, and 
hung his coat on the fence. “ I s’pose the ol’ man 
makes her plough, same as usual ? ” 

“Yup,” said Otto. 

u Dod ding a man that’ll do that ! I don’t mind if 
it’s necessary, but it ain’t necessary in his case.” He 
continued to mutter in this way as he went across to 
the other side of the field. As they turned to come 
back, Rob went up and looked at the horse’s mouth. 
w Gettin’ purty near of age. Say, who’s sparkin’ Julia 
now — anybody ? ” 

u Nobody ’cept some ol’ Norwegians. She won’t have 
them. Por wants her to, but she won’t.” 

u Good Pr her. Nobody comes t’ see her Sunday 
nights, eh ? ” 

“Nope; only ’Tias Anderson an’ Ole Hoover; but 
she goes off an’ leaves ’em.” 

“ Chk ! ” said Rob, starting old Jack across the field. 

It was almost noon, and Jack moved reluctantly. He 
knew the time of day as well as the boy. He made this 
round after distinct protest. 

In the meantime Julia, putting on her shoes and stock- 
ings, went to the fence and watched the man’s shining 
white shirt as he moved across the corn-field. There 
had never been any special tenderness between them, 
but she had always liked him. They had been at school 
together. She wondered why he had come back at this 
time of the year, and wondered how long he would stay. 
How long had he stood looking at her ? She flushed 


Among the Corn- Rows 1 5 1 

again at the thought of it. But he wasn’t to blame ; it 
was a public road. She might have known better. 

She stood under a little popple tree, whose leaves 
shook musically at every zephyr, and her eyes, through 
half-shut lids, roved over the sea of deep-green, glossy 
leaves, dappled here and there by cloud shadows, stirred 
here and there like water by the wind 5 and out of it all 
a longing to be free from such toil rose like a breath, 
filling her throat and quickening the motion of her heart. 
Must this go on forever, this life of heat and dust and 
labor ? What did it all mean ? 

The girl laid her chin on her strong red wrists, and 
looked up into the blue spaces between the vast clouds 
— aerial mountains dissolving in a shoreless azure sea. 
How cool and sweet and restful they looked ! If she 
might only lie out on the billowy, snow-white, sunlit 
edge ! The voices of the driver and the ploughman 
recalled her, and she fixed her eyes again upon the 
slowly nodding head of the patient horse, on the boy 
turned half about on his saddle, talking to the white- 
sleeved man, whose derby hat bobbed up and down quite 
curiously, like the horse’s head. Would she ask him to 
dinner ? What would her people say ? 

“ Phew ! it’s hot ! ” was the greeting the young fellow 
gave as he came up. He smiled in a frank, boyish way, 
as he hung his hat on the top of a stake and looked up 
at her. U D’ y’ know, I kind o’ enjoy gettin’ at it 
again ? Fact. It ain’t no work for a girl, though,” he 
added. 

“ When ’d you get back ? ” she asked, the flush not 


I 5 2 


Main -Travelled Roads 


yet out of her face. Rob was looking at her thick, fine 
hair and full Scandinavian face, rich as a rose in color, 
and did not reply for a few seconds. She stood with 
her hideous sun-bonnet pushed back on her shoulders. 
A kingbird was chattering overhead. 
u Oh, a few days ago.” 
u How long y’ goin’ t’ stay ? ” 

“ Oh, I d’ know. A week, mebbe.” 

A far-off halloo came pulsing across the shimmering 
air. The boy screamed “ Dinner ! ” and waved his hat 
with an answering whoop, then flopped off the horse 
like a turtle off a stone into water. He had the horse 
unhooked in an instant, and had flung his toes up over 
the horse’s back, in act to climb on, when Rob 
said : 

“ H’yare, young feller ! wait a minute. Tired ? ” he 
asked the girl, with a tone that was more than kindly. 
It was almost tender. 

u Yes,” she replied, in a low voice. u My shoes hurt 

__ „ )> 

me. 

“Well, here y’ go,” he replied, taking his stand by 
the horse, and holding out his hand like a step. She 
colored and smiled a little as she lifted her foot into his 
huge, hard, sunburned hand. 

u Oop-a-daisy ! ” he called. She gave a spring, and 
sat on the horse like one at home there. 

Rob had a deliciously unconscious, abstracted, busi- 
ness-like air. He really left her nothing to do but enjoy 
his company, while he went ahead and did precisely as 
he pleased. 


Among the Corn-Rows 153 

“We don’t raise much corn out there, an’ so I kind 
o’ like to see it once more.” 

“ I wish I didn’t have to see another hill of corn as 
iong as I live ! ” replied the girl, bitterly. 

u Don’t know as I blame yeh a bit. But, all the 
same, I’m glad you was working in it to-day,” he 
thought to himself, as he walked beside her horse toward 
the house. 

w Will you stop to dinner ? ” she inquired bluntly, 
almost surlily. It was evident there were reasons why 
she didn’t mean to press him to do so. 

“ You bet I will,” he replied ; “ that is, if you want 1 
should.” 

“You know how we live,” she replied evasively. 
“ If you can stand it, why — ” She broke off abruptly. 

Yes, he remembered how they lived in that big, 
square, dirty, white frame house. It had been three or 
four years since he had been in it, but the smell of the 
cabbage and onions, the penetrating, peculiar mixture of 
odors, assailed his memory as something unforgettable. 

“ I guess I’ll stop,” he said, as she hesitated. She 
said no more, but tried to act as if she were not in any 
way responsible for what came afterward. 

u I guess I c’n stand f’r one meal what you stand all 
the while,” he added. 

As she left them at the well and went to the house 
he saw her limp painfully, and the memory of her face 
so close to his lips as he helped her down from the horse 
gave him pleasure at the same time that he was touched 
by its tired and gloomy look. Mrs. Peterson came to 


154 


Main -Travelled Roads 


the door of the kitchen, looking just the same as ever. 
Broad-faced, unwieldy, flabby, apparently wearing the 
same dress he remembered to have seen her in years 
before, — a dirty drab-colored thing, — she looked as 
shapeless as a sack of wool. Her English was limited 
to, u How de do, Rob ? ” 

He washed at the pump, while the girl, in the attempt 
to be hospitable, held the clean towel for him. 

“ You’re purty well used up, eh ? ” he said to her. 

“Yes; it’s awful hot out there.” 

“ Can’t you lay off this afternoon ? It ain’t right.” 

“ No. He won’t listen to that.” 

“ Well, let me take your place.” 

“ No ; there ain’t any use o’ that.” 

Peterson, a brawny, wide-bearded Norwegian, came up 
at this moment, and spoke to Rob in a sullen, gruff way. 

“ Hallo, whan yo’ gaet back ? ” 

“To-day. He ain’t very glad to see me,” said Rob, 
winking at Julia. “ He ain’t b’ilin’ over with enthusi- 
asm ; but I c’n stand it, for your sake,” he added, with 
amazing assurance ; but the girl had turned away, and 
it was wasted. 

At the table he ate heartily of the “ bean swaagen,” 
which filled a large wooden bowl in the centre of the 
table, and which was ladled into smaller wooden bowls 
at each plate. Julia had tried hard to convert her 
mother to Yankee ways, and had at last given it up 
in despair. Rob kept on safe subjects, mainly asking 
questions about the crops of Peterson, and when address- 
ing the girl, inquired of the schoolmates. By skilful 


l 55 


Among the Corn-Rows 

questioning, he kept the subject of marriage uppermost, 
and seemingly was getting an inventory of the girls not 
yet married or engaged. 

It was embarrassing for the girl. She was all too well 
aware of the difference between her home and the home 
of her schoolmates and friends. She knew that it was 
not pleasant for her “Yankee” friends to come to visit 
her when they could not feel sure of a welcome from 
the tireless, silent, and grim-visaged old Norse, if, in- 
deed, they could escape insult. Julia ate her food 
mechanically, and it could hardly be said that she en- 
joyed the brisk talk of the young man, his eyes were 
upon her so constantly and his smile so obviously ad- 
dressed to her. She rose as soon as possible and, going 
outside, took a seat on a chair under the trees in the 
yard. She was not a coarse or dull girl. In fact, she 
had developed so rapidly by contact with the young 
people of the neighborhood that she no longer found 
pleasure in her own home. She didn’t believe in keep- 
ing up the old-fashioned Norwegian customs, and her 
life with her mother was not one to breed love or con- 
fidence. She was more like a hired hand. The love 
of the mother for her “Yulyie” was sincere though 
rough and inarticulate, and it was her jealousy of the 
young “ Yankees ” that widened the chasm between the 
girl and herself — an inevitable result. 

Rob followed the girl out into the yard, and threw 
himself on the grass at her feet, perfectly unconscious 
of the fact that this attitude was exceedingly graceful 
and becoming to them both. He did it because he 


Main -Travelled Roads 


156 

wanted to talk to her, and the grass was cool and easy ; 
there wasn’t any other chair, anyway. 

“ Do they keep up the ly-ceum and the sociables 
same as ever ? ” 

“Yes. The others go a good ’eal, but I don’t. 
We’re gettin’ such a stock round us, and father thinks 
he needs me s’ much, I don’t get out often. I’m gettin’ 
sick of it.” 

“ I sh’d think y’ would,” he replied, his eyes on her 
face. 

“ I c’d stand the churnin’ and housework, but when 
it comes t’ workin’ outdoors in the dirt an’ hot sun, 
gettin’ all sunburned and chapped up, it’s another 
thing. An’ then it seems as if he gets stingier ’n’ 
stingier every year. I ain’t had a new dress in — I 
d’— know-how— long. He says it’s all nonsense, an’ 
mother’s just about as bad. She don’t want a new dress, 
an’ so she thinks I don’t.” The girl was feeling the 
influence of a sympathetic listener and was making up 
for the long silence. “ I’ve tried t’ go out t’ work, but 
they won’t let me. They’d have t’ pay a hand twenty 
dollars a month f’r the work I do, an’ they like cheap 
help ; but I’m not goin’ t’ stand it much longer, I can 
tell you that.” 

Rob thought she was very handsome as she sat there 
with her eyes fixed on the horizon, while these rebellious 
thoughts found utterance in her quivering, passionate 
voice. 

“Yulie! Kom haar ! ” roared the old man from the 
well. 


Among the Corn-Rows 157 

A frown of anger and pain came into her face. She 
looked at Rob. “ That means more work.” 

u Say ! let me go out in your place. Come, now ; 
what’s the use — ” 

ct No ; it wouldn’t do no good. It ain’t t’-day s’ 
much ; it’s every day, and — ” 

M Yu//W” called Peterson again, with a string of 
impatient Norwegian. “ Batter yo’ kom pooty hal 
quick.” 

“ Well, all right, only I’d like to — ” Rob submitted. 

ct Well, good-by,” she said, with a little touch of 
feeling. u When d’ ye go back ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I’ll see y’ again before I go. Good- 

by.” 

He stood watching her slow, painful pace till she 
reached the well, where Otto was standing with the 
horse. He stood watching them as they moved out 
into the road and turned down toward the field. He 
felt that she had sent him away ; but still there was a 
look in her eyes which was not altogether — 

He gave it up in despair at last. He was not good 
at analyses of this nature ; he was used to plain, blunt 
expressions. There was a woman’s subtlety here quite 
beyond his reach. 

He sauntered slowly off up the road after his talk 
with Julia. His head was low on his breast ; he was 
thinking as one who is about to take a decided and im- 
portant step. 

He stopped at length, and, turning, watched the girl 
moving along in the deeps of the corn. Hardly a leaf 


Main -Travelled Roads 


158 

was stirring ; the untempered sunlight fell in a burning 
flood upon the field ; the grasshoppers rose, snapped, 
buzzed, and fell ; the locust uttered its dry, heat-intensi- 
fying cry. The man lifted his head. 

“ It’s a d — n shame ! ” he said, beginning rapidly to 
retrace his steps. He stood leaning on the fence, await- 
ing the girl’s coming very much as she had waited his 
on the round he had made before dinner. He grew im- 
patient at the slow gait of the horse, and drummed on 
the rail while he whistled. Then he took off his hat 
and dusted it nervously. As the horse got a little nearer 
he wiped his face carefully, pushed his hat back on his 
head, and climbed over the fence, where he stood with 
elbows on the middle rail as the girl and boy and horse 
came to the end of the furrow. 

“ Hot, ain’t it ? ” he said, as she looked up. 

M Jimminy Peters, it’s awful ! ” puffed the boy. The 
girl did not reply till she swung the plough about after 
the horse, and set it upright into the next row. Her 
powerful body had a superb swaying motion at the waist 
as she did this — a motion which affected Rob vaguely 
but massively. 

“ I thought you’d gone,” she said gravely, pushing 
back her bonnet till he could see her face dewed with 
sweat, and pink as a rose. She had the high cheek-bones 
of her race, but she had also their exquisite fairness of 
color. 

w Say, Otto,” asked Rob, alluringly, a wan’ to go 
swimmin’ ? ” 

u You bet,” replied Otto. 


i59 


Among the Corn-Rows 

<c Well, I’ll go a round if — ” 

The boy dropped off the horse, not waiting to hear 
any more. Rob grinned, but the girl dropped her eyes, 
then looked away. 

“ Got rid o’ him mighty quick. Say, Julyie, I hate 
like thunder t’ see you out here; it ain’t right. I wish 
you’d — T wish — ” 

She could not look at him now, and her bosom rose 
and fell with a motion that was not due to fatigue. Her 
moist hair matted around her forehead gave her a boyish 
look. 

Rob nervously tried again, tearing splinters from the 
fence. w Say, now, I’ll tell yeh what I came back here 
for — t’ git married ; and if you’re willin’ I’ll do it to- 
night. Come, now, whaddy y’ say ? ” 

“ What’ve I got t’ do ’bout it ? ” she finally asked, 
the color flooding her face, and a faint smile coming to 
her lips. “ Go ahead. I ain’t got anything — ” 

Rob put a splinter in his mouth and faced her. u Oh, 
looky here, now, Julyie ! you know what I mean. I’ve 
got a good claim out near Boomtown — a rattlin' good 
claim; a shanty on it fourteen by sixteen — no tarred 
paper about it, and a suller to keep butter in, and a 
hundred acres o’ wheat just about ready to turn now. 
I need a wife.” 

Here he straightened up, threw away the splinter, and 
took off* his hat. He was a very pleasant figure as the 
girl stole a look at him. His black laughing eyes were 
especially earnest just now. His voice had a touch of 
pleading. The popple tree over their heads murmured 


160 Main -Travelled Roads 

applause at his eloquence, then hushed to listen. A cloud 
dropped a silent shadow down upon them, and it sent a 
little thrill of fear through Rob, as if it were an omen 
of failure. As the girl remained silent, looking away, 
he began, man-fashion, to desire her more and more, as 
he feared to lose her. He put his hat on the post again 
and took out his jack-knife. Her calico dress draped 
her supple and powerful figure simply but naturally. 
The stoop in her shoulders, given by labor, disappeared 
as she partly leaned upon the fence. The curves of her 
muscular arms showed through her sleeve. 

“ It’s all-fired lonesome f’r me out there on that 
claim, and it ain’t no picnic f’r you here. Now, if you’ll 
come out there with me, you needn’t do anything but 
cook f r me, and after harvest we can git a good layout 
o’ furniture, an’ I’ll lath and plaster the house and put 
a little hell [ell] in the rear.” He smiled, and so did 
she. He felt encouraged to say : u An’ there we be, as 
snug as y’ please. We’re close t’ Boomtown, an’ we 
can go down there to church sociables an’ things, and 
they're a jolly lot there.” 

The girl was still silent, but the man’s simple en- 
thusiasm came to her charged with passion and a sort 
of romance such as her hard life had known little of. 
There was something enticing about this trip to the 
West. 

“ What’ll my folks say ? ” she said at last. 

A virtual surrender, but Rob was not acute enough 
to see it. He pressed on eagerly : 

“ I don’t care. Do you ? They’ll jest keep y’ 


Among the Corn-Rows 161 

ploughin’ corn and milkin’ cows till the day of judgment. 
Come, Julyie, I ain’t got no time to fool away. I’ve 
got t’ get back t’ that grain. It’s a whoopin’ old crop, 
sure’s y’r born, an’ that means sompin purty scrumptious 
in furniture this fall. Come, now.” He approached 
her and laid his hand on her shoulder very much as he 
would have touched Albert Seagraves or any other com- 
rade. “ Whaddy y’ say ? ” 

She neither started nor shrunk nor looked at him. 
She simply moved a step away. u They’d never let me 
go,” she replied bitterly. “ I’m too cheap a hand. I 
do a man’s work an’ get no pay at all.” 

“ You’ll have half o’ all I c’n make,” he put in. 

“ How long c’n you wait ? ” she asked, looking down 
at her dress. 

“ Just two minutes,” he said, pulling out his watch. 
cc It ain’t no use t’ wait. The old man’ll be jest as mad 
a week from now as he is to-day. Why not go now ? ” 

u I’m of age in a few days,” she mused, wavering, 
calculating. 

“ You c’n be of age to-night if you’ll jest call on old 
Squire Hatfield with me.” 

u All right, Rob,” the girl said, turning and holding 
out her hand. 

u That’s the talk ! ” he exclaimed, seizing it. “ And 
now a kiss, to bind the bargain, as the fellah says.” 

“ I guess we c’n get along without that.” 

“ No, we can’t. It won’t seem like an engagement 
without it.” 

u It ain’t goin’ to seem much like one, anyway,” she 

M 


1 62 


Main -Travelled Roads 


answered, with a sudden realization of how far from her 
dreams of courtship this reality was. 

“ Say, now, Julyie, that ain’t fair; it ain’t treatin’ me 
right. You don’t seem to understand that I like you, 
but I do.” 

Rob was carried quite out of himself by the time, the 
place, and the girl. He had said a very moving thing. 

The tears sprang involuntarily to the, girl’s eyes. 
“ Do you mean it ? If y’ do, you may.” 

She was trembling with emotion for the first time. 
The sincerity of the man’s voice had gone deep. 

He put his arm around her almost timidly, and kissed 
her on the cheek, a great love for her springing up in 
his heart. “ That settles it,” he said. w Don’t cry, 
Julyie. You’ll never be sorry for it. Don’t cry. It 
kind o’ hurts me to see it.” 

He hardly understood her feelings. He was only 
aware that she was crying, and tried in a bungling way 
to soothe her. But now that she had given way, she 
sat down in the grass and wept bitterly. 

M Yulyie ! ” yelled the vigilant old Norwegian, like a 
distant foghorn. 

The girl sprang up ; the habit of obedience was strong. 

“ No ; you set right there, and I’ll go round,” he said. 
“ Otto ! ” 

The boy came scrambling out of the wood, half 
dressed. Rob tossed him upon the horse, snatched 
Julia’s sun-bonnet, put his own hat on her head, and 
moved off down the corn-rows, leaving the girl smiling 
through her tears as he whistled and chirped to the 


Among the Corn-Rows 163 

horse. Farmer Peterson, seeing the familiar sun-bonnet 
above the corn-rows, went back to his work, with a 
sentence of Norwegian trailing after him like the tail of 
a kite — something about lazy girls who didn’t earn the 
crust of their bread, etc. 

Rob was wild with delight. “ Git up there, Jack ! 
Hay, you old corncrib ! Say, Otto, can you keep your 
mouth shet if it puts money in your pocket ? ” 

“ Jest try me ’n’ see,” said the keen-eyed little scamp. 
“Well, you keep quiet about my bein’ here this after- 
noon, and I’ll put a dollar on y’r tongue — hay ? — what ? 
— understand ? ” 

“ Show me y’r dollar,” said the boy, turning about and 
showing his tongue. 

u All right. Begin to practise now by not talkin’ to 

_ if 

me. 

Rob went over the whole situation on his way back, 
and when he got in sight of the girl his plan was made. 
She stood waiting for him with a new look on her face. 
Her sullenness had given way to a peculiar eagerness 
and anxiety to believe in him. She was already living 
that free life in a far-off, wonderful country. No more 
would her stern father and sullen mother force her to 
tasks which she hated. She’d be a member of a new 
firm. She’d work, of course, but it would be because 
she wanted to, and not because she was forced to. The 
independence and the love promised grew more and 
more attractive. She laughed back with a softer light 
in her eyes, when she saw the smiling face of Rob look- 
ing at her from her sun-bonnet. 


164 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Now you mustn’t do any more o’ this,” he said. 
“ You go back to the house an’ tell y’r mother you’re 
too lame to plough any more to-day, and it’s gettin’ late, 
anyhow. To-night ! ” he whispered quickly. “ Eleven ! 
Here ! ” 

The girl’s heart leaped with fear. u I’m afraid.” 

“ Not of me , are yeh ? ” 

“ No, I’m not afraid of you, Rob.” 

“ I’m glad o’ that. I — I want you — to like me, 
Julyie ; won’t you ? ” 

“ I’ll try,” she answered, with a smile. 

“ To-night, then,” he said, as she moved away. 

“ To-night. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by.” 

He stood and watched her till her tall figure was lost 
among the drooping corn-leaves. There was a singular 
choking feeling in his throat. The girl’s voice and face 
had brought up so many memories of parties and picnics 
and excursions on far-off holidays, and at the same time 
held suggestions of the future. He already felt that it 
was going to be an unconscionably long time before 
eleven o’clock. 

He saw her go to the house, and then he turned and 
walked slowly up the dusty road. Out of the May- 
weed the grasshoppers sprang, buzzing and snapping their 
dull red wings. Butterflies, yellow and white, fluttered 
around moist places in the ditch, and slender, striped 
water-snakes glided across the stagnant pools at sound 
of footsteps. 

But the mind of the man was far away on his 


Among the Corn-Rows 165 

claim, building a new house, with a woman’s advice and 
presence. 

****** 

It was a windless night. The katydids and an occa- 
sional cricket were the only sounds Rob could hear as he 
stood beside his team and strained his ear to listen. At 
long intervals a little breeze ran through the corn like a 
swift serpent, bringing to his nostrils the sappy smell of 
the growing corn. The horses stamped uneasily as the 
mosquitoes settled on their shining limbs. The sky was 
full of stars, but there was no moon. 

u What if she don’t come ? ” he thought. u Or can't 
come ? I can’t stand that. I’ll go to the old man an’ 
say, 1 Looky here — ’ Sh ! ” 

He listened again. There was a rustling in the corn. 
It was not like the fitful movement of the wind ; it was 
steady, slower, and approaching. It ceased. He whis- 
tled the wailing, sweet cry of the prairie-chicken. Then 
a figure came out into the road — a woman — Julia ! 

He took her in his arms as she came panting up to 
him. 

“ Rob ! ” 

“ Julyie !” 

****** 

A few words, the dull tread of swift horses, the rising 
of a silent train of dust, and then — the wind wandered 
in the growing corn, the dust fell, a dog barked down 
the road, and the katydids sang to the liquid contralto of 
the river in its shallows. 






























































































































































































































































♦ 




















































* 


















































































































































































* 

. » 

























THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 

“ On the road leading ‘ bach to 
God ’s country 7 and wife and 
babies 7 7 










' 
















* 





























. 








THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 


The nearer the train drew toward La Crosse, the 
soberer the little group of u vets ” became. On the long 
way from New Orleans they had beguiled tedium with 
jokes and friendly chaff ; or with planning with elabo- 
rate detail what they were going to do now, after the war. 
A long journey, slowly, irregularly, yet persistently push- 
ing northward. When they entered on Wisconsin terri- 
tory they gave a cheer, and another when they reached 
Madison, but after that they sank into a dumb expect- 
ancy. Comrades dropped off at one or two points be- 
yond, until there were only four or five left who were 
bound for La Crosse County. 

Three of them were gaunt and brown, the fourth was 
gaunt and pale, with signs of fever and ague upon him. 
One had a great scar down his temple, one limped, and 
they all had unnaturally large, bright eyes, showing 
emaciation. There were no bands greeting them at the 
station, no banks of gayly dressed ladies waving handker- 
chiefs and shouting u Bravo ! ” as they came in on the 
caboose of a freight train into the towns that had cheered 
and blared at them on their way to war. As they looked 
out or stepped upon the platform for a moment, while the 
train stood at the station, the loafers looked at them in- 
differently. Their blue coats, dusty and grimy, were too 
169 


Main -Travelled Roads 


170 

familiar now to excite notice, much less a friendly word. 
They were the last of the army to return, and the loafers 
were surfeited with such sights. 

The train jogged forward so slowly that it seemed 
likely to be midnight before they should reach La Crosse. 
The little squad grumbled and swore, but it was no use; 
the train would not hurry, and, as a matter of fact, it was 
nearly two o’clock when the engine whistled “down 
brakes.” 

All of the group were farmers, living in districts sev- 
eral miles out of the town, and all were poor. 

u Now, boys,” said Private Smith, he of the fever and 
ague, u we are landed in La Crosse in the night. We’ve 
got to stay somewhere till mornin’. Now I ain’t got no 
two dollars to waste on a hotel. I’ve got a wife and 
children, so I’m goin’ to roost on a bench and take the 
cost of a bed out of my hide.” 

“ Same here,” put in one of the other men. “ Hide’ll 
grow on again, dollars’ll come hard. It’s goin’ to be 
mighty hot skirmishin’ to find a dollar these days.” 

w Don’t think they’ll be a deputation of citizens waitin’ 
to ’scort us to a hotel, eh ? ” said another. His sarcasm 
was too obvious to require an answer. 

Smith went on, “Then at daybreak we’ll start for 
home — at least, I will.” 

“Well, I’ll be dummed if I’ll take two dollars out o’ 
my hide,” one of the younger men said. “ I’m goin’ to 
a hotel, ef I don’t never lay up a cent.” 

“ That’ll do f’r you,” said Smith ; “ but if you had a 
wife an’ three young uns dependin’ on yeh — ” 


The Return of a Private 17 1 

w Which I ain’t, thank the Lord ! and don’t intend 
havin’ while the court knows itself.” 

The station was deserted, chill, and dark, as they 
came into it at exactly a quarter to two in the morning. 
Lit by the oil lamps that flared a dull red light over the 
dingy benches, the waiting room was not an inviting 
place. The younger man went off to look up a hotel, 
while the rest remained and prepared to camp down on 
the floor and benches. Smith was attended to tenderly 
by the other men, who spread their blankets on the 
bench for him, and, by robbing themselves, made quite 
a comfortable bed, though the narrowness of the bench 
made his sleeping precarious. 

It was chill, though August, and the two men, sitting 
with bowed heads, grew stiff with cold and weariness, 
and were forced to rise now and again and walk about 
to warm their stiffened limbs. It did not occur to them, 
probably, to contrast their coming home with their 
going forth, or with the coming home of the generals, 
colonels, or even captains — but to Private Smith, at 
any rate, there came a sickness at heart almost deadly 
as he lay there on his hard bed and went over his situa- 
tion. 

In the deep of the night, lying on a board in the 
town where he had enlisted three years ago, all elation 
and enthusiasm gone out of him, he faced the fact that 
with the joy of home-coming was already mingled the 
bitter juice of care. He saw himself sick, worn out, 
taking up the work on his half-cleared farm, the inevita- 
ble mortgage standing ready with open jaw to swallow half 


172 


Main -Travelled Roads 


his earnings. He had given three years of his life for a 
mere pittance of pay, and now ! — 

Morning dawned at last, slowly, with a pale yellow 
dome of light rising silently above the bluffs, which 
stand like some huge storm-devastated castle, just east 
of the city. Out to the left the great river swept on its 
massive yet silent way to the south. Bluejays called 
across the water from hillside to hillside through the 
clear, beautiful air, and hawks began to skim the tops 
of the hills. The older men were astir early, but Pri- 
vate Smith had fallen at last into a sleep, and they went 
out without waking him. He lay on his knapsack, his 
gaunt face turned toward the ceiling, his hands clasped 
on his breast, with a curious pathetic effect of weakness 
and appeal. 

An engine switching near woke him at last, and he 
slowly sat up and stared about. He looked out of the 
window and saw that the sun was lightening the hills 
across the river. He rose and brushed his hair as well 
as he could, folded his blankets up, and went out to find 
his companions. They stood gazing silently at the river 
and at the hills. 

“ Looks natcher’l, don’t it ? ” they said, as he came out. 

“ That’s what it does,” he replied. “ An’ it looks 
good. D’ yeh see that peak ? ” He pointed at a beau- 
tiful symmetrical peak, rising like a slightly truncated 
cone, so high that it seemed the very highest of them 
all. It was touched by the morning sun and it glowed 
like a beacon, and a light scarf of gray morning fog was 
rolling up its shadowed side. 


The Return of a Private 173 

u My farm’s just beyond that. Now, if I can only 
ketch a ride, we’ll be home by dinner-time.” 

“ I’m talkin’ about breakfast,” said one of the others. 

“ I guess it’s one more meal o’ hardtack f’r me,” 
said Smith. 

They foraged around, and finally found a restaurant 
with a sleepy old German behind the counter, and pro- 
cured some coffee, which they drank to wash down their 
hardtack. 

“ Time’ll come,” said Smith, holding up a piece by 
the corner, u when this’ll be a curiosity.” 

“ I hope to God it will ! I bet I’ve chawed hardtack 
enough to shingle every house in the coolly. I’ve 
chawed it when my lampers was down, and when they 
wasn’t. I’ve took it dry, soaked, and mashed. I’ve 
had it wormy, musty, sour, and blue-mouldy. I’ve had 
it in little bits and big bits ; ’fore coffee an’ after coffee. 
I’m ready f r a change. I’d like t’ git holt jest about 
now o’ some of the hot biscuits my wife c’n make when 
she lays herself out f’r company.” 

“ Well, if you set there gabblin’, you’ll never see yer 
wife.” 

u Come on,” said Private Smith. “Wait a moment, 
boys ; less take suthin’. It’s on me.” He led them to 
the rusty tin dipper which hung on a nail beside the 
wooden water-pail, and they grinned and drank. Then 
shouldering their blankets and muskets, which they were 
“takin’ home to the boys,” they struck out on their last 
march. 

“ They called that coffee Jayvy,” grumbled one of 


*74 


Main -Travelled Roads 


them, but it never went by the road where govern- 
ment Jayvy resides. I reckon I know coffee from 
peas.” 

They kept together on the road along the turnpike, and 
up the winding road by the river, which they followed for 
some miles. The river was very lovely, curving down 
along its sandy beds, pausing now and then under broad 
basswood trees, or running in dark, swift, silent currents 
under tangles of wild grapevines, and drooping alders, and 
haw trees. At one of these lovely spots the three vets 
sat down on the thick green sward to rest, “on Smith’s 
account.” The leaves of the trees were as fresh and 
green as in June, the jays called cheery greetings to 
them, and kingfishers darted to and fro with swooping, 
noiseless flight. 

“ I tell yeh, boys, this knocks the swamps of Louee- 
siana into kingdom come.” 

“You bet. All they c’n raise down there is snakes, 
niggers, and p’rticler hell.” 

“ An’ fightin’ men,” put in the older man. 

“An’ fightin’ men. If I had a good hook an’ line I’d 
sneak a pick’rel out o’ that pond. Say, remember that 
time I shot that alligator — ” 

“ I guess we’d better be crawlin’ along,” interrupted 
Smith, rising and shouldering his knapsack, with con- 
siderable effort, which he tried to hide. 

“ Say, Smith, lemme give you a lift on that.” 

“ I guess I c’n manage,” said Smith, grimly. 

“Course. But, yo’ see, I may not have a chance 
right off to pay yeh back for the times you’ve carried 


The Return of a Private 


*75 

my gun and hull caboodle. Say, now, gimme that gun, 
anyway.” 

“All right, if yeh feel like it, Jim,” Smith replied, and 
they trudged along doggedly in the sun, which was get- 
ting higher and hotter each half-mile. 

“Ain’t it queer there ain’t no teams cornin’ along,” 
said Smith, after a long silence. 

“ Well, no, seein’s it’s Sunday.” 

“ By jinks, that’s a fact. It is Sunday. I’ll git home 
in time fr dinner, sure!” he exulted. “She don’t hev 
dinner usially till about one on Sundays.” And he fell 
into a muse, in which he smiled. 

“Well, I’ll git home jest about six o’clock, jest about 
when the boys are milkin’ the cows,” said old Jim 
Cranby. “I’ll step into the barn, an’ then I’ll say: 
‘H eah f why ain’t this milkin’ done before this time o’ 
day ? ’ An’ then won’t they yell ! ” he added, slapping 
his thigh in great glee. 

Smith went on. “ I’ll jest go up the path. Old 
Rover’ll come down the road to meet me. He won’t 
bark ; he’ll know me, an’ he’ll come down waggin’ his tail 
an’ showin’ his teeth. That’s his way of laughin’. An’ 
so I’ll walk up to the kitchen door, an’ I’ll say, c Dinner 
f’r a hungry man!’ An’ then she’ll jump up, an’ — ” 

He couldn’t go on. His voice choked at the thought 
of it. Saunders, the third man, hardly uttered a word, 
but walked silently behind the others. He had lost his 
wife the first year he was in the army. She died of 
pneumonia, caught in the autumn rains while working 
in the fields in his place. 


Main “Travelled Roads 


176 

They plodded along till at last they came to a parting 
of the ways. To the right the road continued up the 
main valley; to the left it went over the big ridge. 

“Well, boys,” began Smith, as they grounded their 
muskets and looked away up the valley, u here’s where 
we shake hands. We’ve marched together a good many 
miles, an’ now I s’pose we’re done.” 

“Yes, I don’t think we’ll do any more of it fra while. 
I don’t want to, I know.” 

“I hope I’ll see yeh once in a while, boys, to talk over 
old times.” 

“ Of course,” said Saunders, whose voice trembled a 
little, too. “It ain’t exactly like dyin’.” They all found 
it hard to look at each other. 

“ But we’d ought’r go home with you,” said Cranby. 
“You’ll never climb that ridge with all them things on 
yer back.” 

“ Oh, I’m all right ! Don’t worry about me. Every 
step takes me nearer home, yeh see. Well, good-by, 
boys.” 

They shook hands. “ Good-by. Good luck ! ” 

“Same to you. Lemme know how you find things at 
home.” 

“ Good-by.” 

“ Good-by.” 

He turned once before they passed out of sight, and 
waved his cap, and they did the same, and all yelled. 
Then all marched away with their long, steady, loping, 
veteran step. The solitary climber in blue walked on 
for a time, with his mind filled with the kindness of his 


The Return of a Private 


*77 


comrades, and musing upon the many wonderful days 
they had had together in camp and field. 

He thought of his chum, Billy Tripp. Poor Billy! 
A “ minie ” ball fell into his breast one day, fell wailing 
like a cat, and tore a great ragged hole in his heart. 
He looked forward to a sad scene with Billy’s mother 
and sweetheart. They would want to know all about 
it. He tried to recall all that Billy had said, and the 
particulars of it, but there was little to remember, just 
that wild wailing sound high in the air, a dull slap, a 
short, quick, expulsive groan, and the boy lay with his 
face in the dirt in the ploughed field they were marching 
across. 

That was all. But all the scenes he had since been 
through had not dimmed the horror, the terror of that 
moment, when his boy comrade fell, with only a breath 
between a laugh and a death-groan. Poor handsome 
Billy ! Worth millions of dollars was his young life. 

These sombre recollections gave way at length to 
more cheerful feelings as he began to approach his home 
coolly. The fields and houses grew familiar, and in one 
or two he was greeted by people seated in the doorways. 
But he was in no mood to talk, and pushed on steadily, 
though he stopped and accepted a drink of milk once at 
the well-side of a neighbor. 

The sun was burning hot on that slope, and his step 
grew slower, in spite of his iron resolution. He sat 
down several times to rest. Slowly he crawled up the 
rough, reddish-brown road, which wound along the hill- 
side, under great trees, through dense groves of jack 

N 


i 7 8 


Main -Travelled Roads 


oaks, with tree-tops far below him on his left hand, and 
the hills far above him on his right. He crawled along 
like some minute, wingless variety of fly. 

He ate some hardtack, sauced with wild berries, when 
he reached the summit of the ridge, and sat there for 
some time, looking down into his home coolly. 

Sombre, pathetic figure ! His wide, round, gray eyes 
gazing down into the beautiful valley, seeing and not 
seeing, the splendid cloud-shadows sweeping over the 
western hills and across the green and yellow wheat far 
below. His head drooped forward on his palm, his 
shoulders took on a tired stoop, his cheek-bones showed 
painfully. An observer might have said, u He is look- 
ing down upon his own grave.” 

II 

Sunday comes in a Western wheat harvest with such 
sweet and sudden relaxation to man and beast that it 
would be holy for that reason, if for no other, and Sun- 
days are usually fair in harvest-time. As one goes out 
into the field in the hot morning sunshine, with no sound 
abroad save the crickets and the indescribably pleasant 
silken rustling of the ripened grain, the reaper and the 
very sheaves in the stubble seem to be resting, dreaming. 

Around the house, in the shade of the trees, the men 
sit, smoking, dozing, or reading the papers, while the 
women, never resting, move about at the housework. 
The men eat on Sundays about the same as on other 
days, and breakfast is no sooner over and out of the way 
than dinner begins. 


The Return of a Private 179 

But at the Smith farm there were no men dozing or 
reading. Mrs. Smith was alone with her three children, 
Mary, nine, Tommy, six, and little Ted, just past four. 
Her farm, rented to a neighbor, lay at the head of a 
coolly or narrow gully, made at some far-off post-glacial 
period by the vast and angry floods of water which 
gullied these tremendous furrows in the level prairie — 
furrows so deep that undisturbed portions of the original 
level rose like hills on either side, rose to quite con- 
siderable mountains. 

The chickens wakened her as usual that Sabbath 
morning from dreams of her absent husband, from 
whom she had not heard for weeks. The shadows 
drifted over the hills, down the slopes, across the wheat, 
and up the opposite wall in leisurely way, as if, being 
Sunday, they could take it easy also. The fowls clus- 
tered about the housewife as she went out into the yard. 
Fuzzy little chickens swarmed out from the coops, 
where their clucking and perpetually disgruntled mothers 
tramped about, petulantly thrusting their heads through 
the spaces between the slats. 

A cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a calf an- 
swered from a little pen near by, and a pig scurried 
guiltily out of the cabbages. Seeing all this, seeing the 
pig in the cabbages, the tangle of grass in the garden, 
the broken fence which she had mended again and again 
— the little woman, hardly more than a girl, sat down 
and cried. The bright Sabbath morning was only a 
mockery without him ! 

A few years ago they had bought this farm, paying 


i8o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


part, mortgaging the rest in the usual way. Edward 
Smith was a man of terrible energy. He worked 
u nights and Sundays,” as the saying goes, to clear the 
farm of its brush and of its insatiate mortgage ! In the 
midst of his Herculean struggle came the call for volun- 
teers, and with the grim and unselfish devotion to his 
country which made the Eagle Brigade able to w whip 
its weight in wild-cats,” he threw down his scythe and 
grub-axe, turned his cattle loose, and became a blue- 
coated cog in a vast machine for killing men, and not 
thistles. While the millionaire sent his money to Eng- 
land for safe-keeping, this man, with his girl-wife and 
three babies, left them on a mortgaged farm, and went 
away to fight for an idea. It was foolish, but it was 
sublime for all that. 

That was three years before, and the young wife, sit- 
ting on the well-curb on this bright Sabbath harvest 
morning, was righteously rebellious. It seemed to her 
that she had borne her share of the country’s sorrow. 
Two brothers had been killed, the renter in whose hands 
her husband had left the farm had proved a villain ; one 
year the farm had been without crops, and now the over- 
ripe grain was waiting the tardy hand of the neighbor 
who had rented it, and who was cutting his own grain 
first. 

About six weeks before, she had received a letter say- 
ing, “ We’ll be discharged in a little while.” But no 
other word had come from him. She had seen by the 
papers that his army was being discharged, and from day 
to day other soldiers slowly percolated in blue streams 


The Return of a Private 1 8 1 

back into the State and county, but still her hero did not 
return. 

Each week she had told the children that he was com- 
ing, and she had watched the road so long that it had 
become unconscious; and as she stood at the well, or 
by the kitchen door, her eyes were fixed unthinkingly on 
the road that wound down the coolly. 

Nothing wears on the human soul like waiting. If 
the stranded mariner, searching the sun-bright seas, could 
once give up hope of a ship, that horrible grinding on 
his brain would cease. It was this waiting, hoping, on 
the edge of despair, that gave Emma Smith no rest. 

Neighbors said, with kind intentions : w He’s sick, 
maybe, an’ can’t start north just yet. He’ll come along 
one o’ these days.” 

“ Why don’t he write ? ” was her question, which 
silenced them all. This Sunday morning it seemed to 
her as if she could not stand it longer. The house 
seemed intolerably lonely. So she dressed the little ones 
in their best calico dresses and home-made jackets, and, 
closing up the house, set off down the coolly to old 
Mother Gray’s. 

“ Old Widder Gray ” lived at the w mouth of the 
coolly.” She was a widow woman with a large family 
of stalwart boys and laughing girls. She was the visible 
incarnation of hospitality and optimistic poverty. With 
Western open-heartedness she fed every mouth that 
asked food of her, and worked herself to death as cheer- 
fully as her girls danced in the neighborhood harvest 
dances. 


I 82 


Main -Travelled Roads 


She waddled down the path to meet Mrs. Smith with 
a broad smile on her face. 

“ Oh, you little dears ! Come right to your granny. 
Gimme me a kiss ! Come right in, Mis’ Smith. How 
are yeh, anyway ? Nice morning ain’t it ? Come in 
an’ set down. Everything’s in a clutter, but that won’t 
scare you any.” 

She led the way into the best room, a sunny, square 
room, carpeted with a faded and patched rag carpet, and 
papered with white-and-green-striped wall-paper, where 
a few faded effigies of dead members of the family hung 
in variously sized oval walnut frames. The house re- 
sounded with singing, laughter, whistling, tramping of 
heavy boots, and riotous scufflings. Half-grown boys 
came to the door and crooked their fingers at the children, 
who ran out, and were soon heard in the midst of the fun. 

“ Don’t s’pose you’ve heard from Ed ? ” Mrs. Smith 
shook her head. cc He’ll turn up some day, when you 
ain’t lookin’ for ’m.” The good old soul had said that 
so many times that poor Mrs. Smith derived no comfort 
from it any longer. 

ct Liz heard from A1 the other day. He’s cornin’ 
some day this week. Anyhow, they expect him.” 

“ Did he say anything of — ” 

M No, he didn’t,” Mrs. Gray admitted. “ But then 
it was only a short letter, anyhow. A1 ain’t much for 
writin’, anyhow. — But come out and see my new cheese. 
I tell yeh, I don’t believe I ever had better luck in my 
life. If Ed should come, I want you should take him 
up a piece of this cheese.” 


The Return of a Private 183 

It was beyond human nature to resist the influence of 
that noisy, hearty, loving household, and in the midst of 
the singing and laughing the wife forgot her anxiety, for 
the time at least, and laughed and sang with the rest. 

About eleven o’clock a wagon-load more drove up to 
the door, and Bill Gray, the widow’s oldest son, and his 
whole family, from Sand Lake Coolly, piled out amid a 
good-natured uproar. Every one talked at once, except 
Bill, who sat in the wagon with his wrists on his knees, 
a straw in his mouth, and an amused twinkle in his blue 
eyes. 

u Ain’t heard nothin’ o’ Ed, I s’pose ? ” he asked in a 
kind of bellow. Mrs. Smith shook her head. Bill, with 
a delicacy very striking in such a great giant, rolled his 
quid in his mouth, and said : 

u Didn’t know but you had. I hear two or three of 
the Sand Lake boys are cornin’. Left New Orleenes 
some time this week. Didn’t write nothin’ about Ed, 
but no news is good news in such cases, mother always 
says.” 

u Well, go put out yer team,” said Mrs. Gray, M an’ 
go ’n bring me in some taters, an’, Sim, you go see if you 
c’n find some corn. Sadie, you put on the water to bile. 
Come now, hustle yer boots, all o’ yeh. If I feed this 
yer crowd, we’ve got to have some raw materials. If 
y’ think I’m goin’ to feed yeh on pie — you’re jest 
mightily mistaken.” 

The children went off into the fields, the girls put 
dinner on to boil, and then went to change their dresses 
and fix their hair. “ Somebody might come,” they said. 


184 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Land sakes, I hope not ! I don’t know where in 
time Fd set ’em, ’less they’d eat at the second table,” 
Mrs. Gray laughed, in pretended dismay. 

The two older boys, who had served their time in the 
army, lay out on the grass before the house, and whittled 
and talked desultorily about the war and the crops, and 
planned buying a threshing-machine. The older girls 
and Mrs. Smith helped enlarge the table and put on the 
dishes, talking all the time in that cheery, incoherent, and 
meaningful way a group of such women have, — a con- 
versation to be taken for its spirit rather than for its 
letter, though Mrs. Gray at last got the ear of them all 
and dissertated at length on girls. 

“ Girls in love ain’t no use in the whole blessed week,” 
she said. “Sundays they’re a-lookin’ down the road, ex- 
pectin’ he’ll come. Sunday afternoons they can’t think 
o’ nothin’ else, ’cause he’s here. Monday mornin’s 
they’re sleepy and kind o’ dreamy and slimpsy, and good 
f’r nothin’ on Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday they 
git absent-minded, an’ begin to look off toward Sunday 
agin, an’ mope aroun’ and let the dishwater git cold, right 
under their noses. Friday they break dishes, an’ go off 
in the best room an’ snivel, an’ look out o’ the winder. 
Saturdays they have queer spurts o’ workin’ like all 
p’ssessed, an’ spurts o’ frizzin’ their hair. An’ Sunday 
they begin it all over agin.” 

The girls giggled and blushed, all through this tirade 
from their mother, their broad faces and powerful frames 
anything but suggestive of lackadaisical sentiment. But 
Mrs. Smith said : 


The Return of a Private 185 

u Now, Mrs. Gray, I hadn’t ought to stay to dinner. 
You’ve got — ” 

“ Now you set right down ! If any of them girls* 
beaus comes, they’ll have to take what’s left, that’s all. 
They ain’t s’posed to have much appetite, nohow. No, 
you’re goin’ to stay if they starve, an’ they ain’t no dan- 
ger o’ that.” 

At one o’clock the long table was piled with boiled 
potatoes, cords of boiled corn on the cob, squash and 
pumpkin pies, hot biscuit, sweet pickles, bread and butter, 
and honey. Then one of the girls took down a conch- 
shell from a nail, and going to the door, blew a long, 
fine, free blast, that showed there was no weakness of 
lungs in her ample chest. 

Then the children came out of the forest of corn, out 
of the creek, out of the loft of the barn, and out of the 
garden. 

u They come to their feed f’r all the world jest like 
the pigs when y’ holler c poo-ee ! ’ See ’em scoot ! ” 
laughed Mrs. Gray, every wrinkle on her face shining 
with delight. 

The men shut up their jack-knives, and surrounded 
the horse-trough to souse their faces in the cold, hard 
water, and in a few moments the table was filled with 
a merry crowd, and a row of wistful-eyed youngsters 
circled the kitchen wall, where they stood first on one 
leg and then on the other, in impatient hunger. 

“ Now pitch in, Mrs. Smith,” said Mrs. Gray, pre- 
siding over the table. “ You know these men critters. 
They’ll eat every grain of it, if yeh give ’em a chance. 


1 86 


Main -Travelled Roads 


I swan, they’re made o’ India-rubber, their stomachs is, 
I know it.” 

“ Haf to eat to work,” said Bill, gnawing a cob with a 
swift, circular motion that rivalled a corn-sheller in results. 

“ More like workin’ to eat,” put in one of the girls, 
with a giggle. “ More eat ’n work with you.” 

“You needn’t say anything, Net. Any one that’ll eat 
seven ears — ” 

“ I didn’t, no such thing. You piled your cobs on 
my plate.” 

“ That’ll do to tell Ed Varney. It won’t go down 
here where we know yeh.” 

u Good land ! Eat all yeh want ! They’s plenty 
more in the fiel’s, but I can’t afford to give you young 
uns tea. The tea is for us women-folks, and ’specially 
f’r Mis’ Smith an’ Bill’s wife. We’re a-goin’ to tell 
fortunes by it.” 

One by one the men filled up and shoved back, and 
one by one the children slipped into their places, and by 
two o’clock the women alone remained around the 
debris-covered table, sipping their tea and telling for- 
tunes. 

As they got well down to the grounds in the cup, 
they shook them with a circular motion in the hand, 
and then turned them bottom-side-up quickly in the 
saucer, then twirled them three or four times one way, 
and three or four times the other, during a breathless 
pause. Then Mrs. Gray lifted the cup, and, gazing 
into it with profound gravity, pronounced the impend- 
ing fate. 


The Return of a Private 187 

It must be admitted that, to a critical observer, she 
had abundant preparation for hitting close to the mark, 
as when she told the girls that “somebody was cornin’.” 
“ It’s a man,” she went on gravely. u He is cross- 
eyed — ” 

“ Oh, you hush ! ” cried Nettie. 

u He has red hair, and is death on b’iled corn and hot 
biscuit.” 

The others shrieked with delight. 

u But he’s goin’ to get the mitten, that red-headed 
feller is, for I see another feller cornin’ up behind him.” 

u Oh, lemme see, lemme see ! ” cried Nettie. 

u Keep off,” said the priestess, with a lofty gesture. 
w His hair is black. He don’t eat so much, and he 
works more.” 

The girls exploded in a shriek of laughter, and 
pounded their sister on the back. 

At last came Mrs. Smith’s turn, and she was trem- 
bling with excitement as Mrs. Gray again composed her 
jolly face to what she considered a proper solemnity of 
expression. 

“ Somebody is cornin’ to you” she said, after a long 
pause. u He’s got a musket on his back. He’s a 
soldier. He’s almost here. See ? ” 

She pointed at two little tea-stems, which really formed 
a faint suggestion of a man with a musket on his back. 
He had climbed nearly to the edge of the cup. Mrs. 
Smith grew pale with excitement. She trembled so she 
could hardly hold the cup in her hand as she gazed 
into it. 


1 8 8 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ It’s Ed,” cried the old woman. “ He’s on the way 
home. Heavens an’ earth J There he is now ! ” She 
turned and waved her hand out toward the road. They 
rushed to the door to look where she pointed. 

A man in a blue coat, with a musket on his back, 
was toiling slowly up the hill on the sun-bright, dusty 
road, toiling slowly, with bent head half hidden by a 
heavy knapsack. So tired it seemed that walking was 
indeed a process of falling. So eager to get home he 
would not stop, would not look aside, but plodded on, 
amid the cries of the locusts, the welcome of the crickets, 
and the rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting back to 
God’s country, and his wife and babies ! 

Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the children 
at the same time, the little wife, almost hysterical, 
snatched her hat and ran out into the yard. But the 
soldier had disappeared over the hill into the hollow 
beyond, and, by the time she had found the children, 
he was too far away for her voice to reach him. And, 
besides, she was not sure it was her husband, for he had 
not turned his head at their shouts. This seemed so 
strange. Why didn’t he stop to rest at his old neigh- 
bor’s house ? Tortured by hope and doubt, she hurried 
up the coolly as fast as she could push the baby wagon, 
the blue-coated figure just ahead pushing steadily, silently 
forward up the coolly. 

When the excited, panting little group came in sight 
of the gate they saw the blue-coated figure standing, 
leaning upon the rough rail fence, his chin on his palms, 
gazing at the empty house. His knapsack, canteen, 


The Return of a Private 189 

blankets, and musket lay upon the dusty grass at his 
feet. 

He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, hun- 
gry eyes devoured the scene. The rough lawn, the 
little unpainted house, the field of clear yellow wheat 
behind it, down across which streamed the sun, now 
almost ready to touch the high hill to the west, the crickets 
crying merrily, a cat on the fence near by, dreaming, 
unmindful of the stranger in blue — 

How peaceful it all was. O God ! How far re- 
moved from all camps, hospitals, battle lines. A little 
cabin in a Wisconsin coolly, but it was majestic in its 
peace. How did he ever leave it for those years of 
tramping, thirsting, killing ? 

Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the 
silent figure, Mrs. Smith hurried up to the fence. Her 
feet made no noise in the dust and grass, and they were 
close upon him before he knew of them. The oldest 
boy ran a little ahead. He will never forget that figure, 
that face. It will always remain as something epic, 
that return of the private. He fixed his eyes on the 
pale face covered with a ragged beard. 

“ Who are you, sir ? ” asked the wife, or, rather, 
started to ask, for he turned, stood a moment, and then 
cried : 

44 Emma ! ” 

44 Edward ! ” 

The children stood in a curious row to see their 
mother kiss this bearded, strange man, the elder girl 
sobbing sympathetically with her mother. Illness had 


190 


Main -Travelled Roads 


left the soldier partly deaf, and this added to the strange- 
ness of his manner. 

But the youngest child stood away, even after the 
girl had recognized her father and kissed him. The 
man turned then to the baby, and said in a curiously 
unpaternal tone : 

“ Come here, my little man ; don’t you know me ? ” 
But the baby backed away under the fence and stood 
peering at him critically. 

“ My little man ! ” What meaning in those words ! 
This baby seemed like some other woman’s child, and 
not the infant he had left in his wife’s arms. The war 
had come between him and his baby — he was only a 
strange man to him, with big eyes ; a soldier, with 
mother hanging to his arm, and talking in a loud 
voice. 

“And this is Tom,” the private said, drawing the 
oldest boy to him. “ He'll come and see me. He 
knows his poor old pap when he comes home from the 
war.” 

The mother heard the pain and reproach in his voice 
and hastened to apologize. 

“You’ve changed so, Ed. He can’t know yeh. 
This is papa, Teddy; come and kiss him — Tom and 
Mary do. Come, won’t you ? ” But Teddy still 
peered through the fence with solemn eyes, well out 
of reach. He resembled a half-wild kitten that hesi- 
tates, studying the tones of one’s voice. 

“ I’ll fix him,” said the soldier, and sat down to undo 
his knapsack, out of which he drew three enormous and 


The Return of a Private 


191 

very red apples. After giving one to each of the older 
children, he said : 

“ Now I guess he’ll come. Eh, my little man ? 
Now come see your pap.” 

Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the 
overzealous Tommy, and a moment later was kicking 
and squalling in his father’s arms. Then they entered 
the house, into the sitting room, poor, bare, art-forsaken 
little room, too, with its rag carpet, its square clock, and 
its two or three chromos and pictures from Harper's 
Weekly pinned about. 

“ Emma, I’m all tired out,” said Private Smith, as he 
flung himself down on the carpet as he used to do, 
while his wife brought a pillow to put under his head, 
and the children stood about munching their apples. 

“Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips, and 
Mary, you get the tea-kettle on, and I’ll go and make 
some biscuit.” 

And the soldier talked. Question after question he 
poured forth about the crops, the cattle, the renter, tTie 
neighbors. He slipped his heavy government brogan 
shoes off his poor, tired, blistered feet, and lay out with 
utter, sweet relaxation. He was a free man again, no 
longer a soldier under command. At supper he stopped 
once, listened and smiled. u That’s old Spot. I know 
her voice. I s’pose that’s her calf out there in the pen. 
I can’t milk her to-night, though. I’m too tired. But 
I tell you, I’d like a drink o’ her milk. What’s become 
of old Rove ? ” 

“ He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess.” There 


192 


Main -Travelled Roads 


was a moment of sadness for them all. It was some 
time before the husband spoke again, in a voice that 
trembled a little. 

u Poor old feller ! He’d ’a’ known me half a mile 
away. I expected him to come down the hill to meet 
me. It ’ud ’a’ been more like cornin’ home if I could 
’a’ seen him cornin’ down the road an’ waggin’ his tail, 
an’ laughin’ that way he has. I tell yeh, it kind o’ took 
hold o’ me to see the blinds down an’ the house shut 
up.” 

“ But, yeh see, we — we expected you’d write again 
’fore you started. And then we thought we’d see you 
if you did come,” she hastened to explain. 

“Well, I ain’t worth a cent on writin’. Besides, it’s 
just as well yeh didn’t know when I was cornin’. I tell 
you, it sounds good to hear them chickens out there, an’ 
turkeys, an’ the crickets. Do you know they don’t 
have just the same kind o’ crickets down South ? Who’s 
Sam hired t’ help cut yer grain ? ” 

“ The Ramsey boys.” 

w Looks like a good crop ; but I’m afraid I won’t do 
much gettin’ it cut. This cussed fever an’ ague has 
got me down pretty low. I don’t know when I’ll get 
rid of it. I’ll bet I’ve took twenty-five pounds of qui- 
nine if I’ve taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I 
tell yeh, they taste good, Emma. I ain’t had anything 
like it — Say, if you’d ’a’ hear’d me braggin’ to th’ 
boys about your butter ’n’ biscuits I’ll bet your ears ’ud 
’a’ burnt.” 

The private’s wife colored with pleasure. “ Oh, 


The Return of a Private 193 

you’re always a-braggin’ about your things. Everybody 
makes good butter.” 

w Yes ; old lady Snyder, for instance.” 

“ Oh, well, she ain’t to be mentioned. She’s Dutch.” 

“ Or old Mis’ Snively. One more cup o’ tea, Mary. 
That’s my girl ! I’m feeling better already. I just 
b’lieve the matter with me is, I’m starved .” 

This was a delicious hour, one long to be remem- 
bered. They were like lovers again. But their tender- 
ness, like that of a typical American family, found 
utterance in tones, rather than in words. He was prais- 
ing her when praising her biscuit, and she knew it. 
They grew soberer when he showed where he had been 
struck, one ball burning the back of his hand, one cut- 
ting away a lock of hair from his temple, and one pass- 
ing through the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered to 
think how near she had come to being a soldier’s widow. 
Her waiting no longer seemed hard. This sweet, glori- 
ous hour effaced it all. 

Then they rose, and all went out into the garden and 
down to the barn. He stood beside her while she 
milked old Spot. They began to plan fields and crops 
for next year. 

His farm was weedy and encumbered, a rascally 
renter had run away with his machinery (departing be- 
tween two days), his children needed clothing, the years 
were coming upon him, he was sick and emaciated, but 
his heroic soul did not quail. With the same courage 
with which he had faced his Southern march he entered 
upon a still more hazardous future. 


o 


194 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Oh, that mystic hour ! The pale man with big eyes 
standing there by the well, with his young wife by his 
side. The vast moon swinging above the eastern peaks, 
the cattle winding down the pasture slopes with jangling 
bells, the crickets singing, the stars blooming out sweet 
and far and serene; the katydids rhythmically calling, 
the little turkeys crying querulously, as they settled to 
roost in the poplar tree near the open gate. The voices 
at the well drop lower, the little ones nestle in their 
father’s arms at last, and Teddy falls asleep there. 

The common soldier of the American volunteer army 
had returned. His war with the South was over, and 
his fight, his daily running fight with nature and against 
the injustice of his fellow-men, was begun again. 


UNDER THE LION’S PAW 


“ Along this main- travelled road trailed an endless line 
of prairie schooners , coming into sight at the east y and 
passing out of sight over the swell to the west . We 
children used to wonder where they were going and 
why they went 9 * 














































































. 








































































' 






















' 






































UNDER THE LION’S PAW 


It was the last of autumn and first day of winter 
coming together. All day long the ploughmen on their 
prairie farms had moved to and fro in their wide level 
fields through the falling snow, which melted as it fell, 
wetting them to the skin — all day, notwithstanding the 
frequent squalls of snow, the dripping, desolate clouds, 
and the muck of the furrows, black and tenacious as 
tar. 

Under their dripping harness the horses swung to and 
fro silently, with that marvellous uncomplaining patience 
which marks the horse. All day the wild geese, honk- 
ing wildly, as they sprawled sidewise down the wind, 
seemed to be fleeing from an enemy behind, and with 
neck outthrust and wings extended, sailed down the 
wind, soon lost to sight. 

Yet the ploughman behind his plough, though the 
snow lay on his ragged great-coat, and the cold clinging 
mud rose on his heavy boots, fettering him like gyves, 
whistled in the very beard of the gale. As day passed, 
the snow, ceasing to melt, lay along the ploughed land, 
and lodged in the depth of the- stubble, till on each slow 
round the last furrow stood out black and shining as jet 
between the ploughed land and the gray stubble. 

When night began to fall, and the geese, flying low, 
197 


Main -Travelled Roads 


198 

began to alight invisibly in the near corn-field, Stephen 
Council was still at work u finishing a land.” He rode 
on his sulky plough when going with the wind, but 
walked when facing it. Sitting bent and cold but 
cheery under his slouch hat, he talked encouragingly to 
his four-in-hand. 

“ Come round there, boys ! — Round agin ! We got 
t’ finish this land. Come in there, Dan ! Stiddy , Kate, 
— stiddy ! None o’ y’r tantrums, Kittie. It’s purty 
tuff, but got a be did. Tchk ! tchk ! Step along, Pete ! 
Don’t let Kate git y’r single-tree on the wheel. Once 
more ! ” 

They seemed to know what he meant, and that this 
was the last round, for they worked with greater vigor 
than before. 

“ Once more, boys, an’ then, sez I, oats an’ a nice 
warm stall, an’ sleep f’r all.” 

By the time the last furrow was turned on the land it 
was too dark to see the house, and the snow was chang- 
ing to rain again. The tired and hungry man could see 
the light from the kitchen shining through the leafless 
hedge, and he lifted a great shout, u Supper Pr a half a 
dozen ! ” 

It was nearly eight o’clock by the time he had finished 
his chores and started for supper. He was picking his 
way carefully through the mud, when the tall form 
of a man, loomed up before him with a premonitory 
cough. 

u Waddy ye want? ” was the rather startled question 
of the farmer. * 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


199 

“Well, ye see,” began the stranger, in a deprecating 
tone, “we’d like t’ git in fr the night. We’ve tried 
every house fr the last two miles, but they hadn’t any 
room f ’r us. My wife’s jest about sick, ’n’ the children 
are cold and hungry — ” 

“ Oh, y’ want ’o stay all night, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; it ’ud be a great accom — ” 

“ Waal, I don’t make it a practice t’ turn anybuddy 
way hungry, not on sech nights as this. Drive right 
in. We ain’t got much, but sech as it is — ” 

But the stranger had disappeared. And soon his 
steaming, weary team, with drooping heads and swinging 
single-trees, moved past the well to the block beside the 
path. Council stood at the side of the “ schooner ” 
and helped the children out — two little half-sleeping 
children — and then a small woman with a babe in her 
arms. 

“ There ye go ! ” he shouted jovially, to the children. 
“ Now we’re all right ! Run right along to the house 
there, an’ tell Mam’ Council you wants sumpthin’ t’ eat. 
Right this way, Mis’ — keep right off t’ the right there. 
I’ll go an’ git a lantern. Come,” he said to the dazed 
and silent group at his side. 

« Mother,” he shouted, as he neared the fragrant and 
warmly lighted kitchen, “ here are some wayfarers an’ 
folks who need sumpthin’ t’ eat an’ a place t’ snooze.” 
He ended by pushing them all in. 

Mrs. Council, a large, jolly, rather coarse-looking 
woman, took the children in her arms. “ Come right 
in, you little rabbits. ’Most asleep, hey ? Now here’s 


200 


Main -Travelled Roads 


a drink o’ milk f’r each o’ ye. I’ll have s’m tea in 
a minute. Take off y’r things and set up t’ the 
fire.” 

While she set the children to drinking milk, Council 
got out his lantern and went out to the barn to help 
the stranger about his team, where his loud, hearty 
voice could be heard as it came and went between the 
haymow and the stalls. 

The woman came to light as a small, timid, and 
discouraged-looking woman, but still pretty, in a thin 
and sorrowful way. 

u Land sakes ! An’ you’ve travelled all the way 
from Clear Lake t’-day in this mud ! Waal ! waal ! 
No wonder you’re all tired out. Don’t wait f’r the 
men, Mis’ — ” She hesitated, waiting for the name. 

“ Haskins.” 

“ Mis’ Haskins, set right up to the table an’ take a 
good swig o’ tea whilst I make y’ s’m toast. It’s green 
tea, an’ it’s good. I tell Council as I git older I don’t 
seem to enjoy Young Hyson n’r Gunpowder. I want 
the reel green tea, jest as it comes off’n the vines. 
Seems t’ have more heart in it, some way. Don’t s’pose 
it has. Council says it’s all in m’ eye.” 

Going on in this easy way, she soon had the chil- 
dren filled with bread and milk and the woman thor- 
oughly at home, eating some toast and sweet-melon 
pickles, and sipping the tea. 

“ See the little rats ! ” she laughed at the children. 
“They’re full as they can stick now, and they want 
to go to bed. Now, don’t git up, Mis’ Haskins j set 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


201 


right where you are an’ let me look after ’em. I know 
all about young ones, though I’m all alone now. Jane 
went an’ married last fall. But, as I tell Council, it’s 
lucky we keep our health. Set right there, Mis’ Has- 
kins \ I won’t have you stir a finger.” 

It was an unmeasured pleasure to sit there in the 
warm, homely kitchen, the jovial chatter of the house- 
wife driving out and holding at bay the growl of the 
impotent, cheated wind. 

The little woman’s eyes filled with tears which fell, 
down upon the sleeping baby in her arms. The world 
was not so desolate and cold and hopeless, after all. 

u Now I hope Council won’t stop out there and 
talk politics all night. He’s the greatest man to talk 
politics an’ read the Tribune — How old is it ? ” 

She broke off and peered down at the face of the 
babe. 

“Two months ’n’ five days,” said the mother, with 
a mother’s exactness. 

“ Ye don’t say ! I want ’o know ! The dear little 
pudzy-wudzy ! ” she went on, stirring it up in the 
neighborhood of the ribs with her fat forefinger. 

« Pooty tough on ’oo to go gallivant’n’ ’cross lots 
this way — ” 

“ Yes, that’s so ; a man can’t lift a mountain,” said 
Council, entering the door. “Mother, this is Mr. 
Haskins, from Kansas. He’s been eat up ’n’ drove out 
by grasshoppers.” 

“Glad t’ see yeh! — Pa, empty that wash-basin ’n* 
give him a chance t’ wash.” 


202 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Haskins was a tall man, with a thin, gloomy face. 
His hair was a reddish brown, like his coat, and seemed 
equally faded by the wind and sun, and his sallow 
face, though hard and set, was pathetic somehow. You 
would have felt that he had suffered much by the line 
of his mouth showing under his thin, yellow mustache. 

“Hain’t Ike got home yet, Sairy?” 

“ Hain’t seen ’im.” 

“ W-a-a-1, set right up, Mr. Haskins ; wade right 
into what we’ve got ; ’tain’t much, but we manage to 
live on it — she gits fat on it,” laughed Council, point- 
ing his thumb at his wife. 

After supper, while the women put the children to 
bed, Haskins and Council talked on, seated near the 
huge cooking-stove, the steam rising from their wet 
clothing. In the Western fashion Council told as much 
of his own life as he drew from his guest. He asked 
but few questions, but by and by the story of Haskins’ 
struggles and defeat come out. The story was a terrible 
one, but he told it quietly, seated with his elbows on 
his knees, gazing most of the time at the hearth. 

cc I didn’t like the looks of the country, anyhow,” 
Haskins said, partly rising and glancing at his wife. 
w I was ust t’ northern Ingyannie, where we have lots 
o’ timber ’n’ lots o’ rain, ’n’ I didn’t like the looks o’ 
that dry prairie. What galled me the worst was goin’ 
s’ far away acrosst so much fine land layin’ all through 
here vacant.” 

“And the ’hoppers eat ye four years, hand running 
did they ? ” 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


203 


u Eat ! They wiped us out. They chawed every- 
thing that was green. They jest set around waitin’ f ’r 
us to die t’ eat us, too. My God ! I ust t’ dream of 
’em sittin’ ’round on the bedpost, six feet long, workin’ 
their jaws. They eet the fork-handles. They got 
worse ’n’ worse till they jest rolled on one another, 
piled up like snow in winter. Well, it ain’t no use. 
If I was t’ talk all winter I couldn’t tell nawthin’. 
But all the while I couldn’t help thinkin’ of all that land 
back here that nobuddy was usin’ that I ought ’o had 
’stead o’ bein’ out there in that cussed country.” 

“ Waal, why didn’t ye stop an’ settle here ? ” 
asked Ike, who had come in and was eating his 
supper. 

w Fer the simple reason that you fellers wantid ten ’r 
fifteen dollars an acre fer the bare land, and I hadn’t no 
money fer that kind o’ thing.” 

cc Yes, I do my own work,” Mrs. Council was heard 
to say in the pause which followed. “ I’m a gettin’ 
purty heavy t’ be on m’ laigs all day, but we can’t afford 
t’ hire, so I keep rackin’ around somehow, like a foundered 
horse. S’ lame — I tell Council he can’t tell how lame 
I am, f’r I’m jest as lame in one laig as t’other.” And 
the good soul laughed at the joke on herself as she took 
a handful of flour and dusted the biscuit-board to keep 
the dough from sticking. 

w Well, I hain’t never been very strong,” said Mrs. 
Haskins. “ Our folks was Canadians an’ small-boned, 
and then since my last child I hain’t got up again fairly. 
I don't like t’ complain. Tim has about all he can 


204 


Main -Travelled Roads 


bear now — but they was days this week when I jest 
wanted to lay right down an’ die.” 

“Waal, now, I’ll tell ye,” said Council, from his side 
of the stove, silencing everybody with his good-natured 
roar, “ I’d go down and see Butler, anyway , if I was you. 
I guess he’d let you have his place purty cheap ; the 
farm’s all run down. He’s ben anxious t’ let t’ some- 
buddy next year. It ’ud be a good chance fer you. 
Anyhow, you go to bed and sleep like a babe. I’ve 
got some ploughin’ t’ do, anyhow, an’ we’ll see if some- 
thin’ can’t be done about your case. Ike, you go out 
an’ see if the horses is all right, an’ I’ll show the folks 
t’ bed.” 

When the tired husband and wife were lying under 
the generous quilts of the spare bed, Haskins listened a 
moment to the wind in the eaves, and then said, with 
a slow and solemn tone, 

“There are people in this world who are good enough 
t’ be angels, an’ only haff t’ die to be angels.” 

II 

Jim Butler was one of those men called in the West 
“ land poor.” Early in the history of Rock River he 
had come into the town and started in the grocery 
business in a small way, occupying a small building in a 
mean part of the town. At this period of his life he 
earned all he got, and was up early and late sorting beans, 
working over butter, and carting his goods to and from 
the station. But a change came over him at the end 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


205 


of the second year, when he sold a lot of land for four 
times what he paid for it. From that time forward he 
believed in land speculation as the surest way of getting 
rich. Every cent he could save or spare from his trade 
he put into land at forced sale, or mortgages on land, 
which were “just as good as the wheat,” he was accus- 
tomed to say. 

Farm after farm fell into his hands, until he was rec- 
ognized as one of the leading landowners of the county. 
His mortgages were scattered all over Cedar County, and 
as they slowly but surely fell in he sought usually to 
retain the former owner as tenant. 

He was not ready to foreclose ; indeed, he had the 
name of being one of the “ easiest ” men in the town. 
He let the debtor off again and again, extending the time 
whenever possible. 

“I don’t want y’r land,” he said. “All I’m after is 
the int’rest on my money — that’s all. Now, if y’ want 
’o stay on the farm, why, I’ll give y’ a good chance. I 
can’t have the land layin’ vacant.” And in many cases 
the owner remained as tenant. 

In the meantime he had sold his store ; he couldn’t 
spend time in it ; he was mainly occupied now with 
sitting around town on rainy days smoking and “ gassin’ 
with the boys,” or in riding to and from his farms. In 
fishing-time he fished a good deal. Doc Grimes, Ben 
Ashley, and Cal Cheatham were his cronies on these 
fishing excursions or hunting trips in the time of chick- 
ens or partridges. In winter they went to Northern 
Wisconsin to shoot deer. 


20 6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


In spite of all these signs of easy life Butler persisted 
in saying he cc hadn’t enough money to pay taxes on his 
land,” and was careful to convey the impression that he 
was poor in spite of his twenty farms. At one time 
he was said to be worth fifty thousand dollars, but land 
had been a little slow of sale of late, so that he was not 
worth so much. 

A fine farm, known as the Higley place, had fallen 
into his hands in the usual way the previous year, and 
he had not been able to find a tenant for it. Poor Hig- 
ley, after working himself nearly to death on it in the 
attempt to lift the mortgage, had gone off to Dakota, 
leaving the farm and his curse to Butler. 

This was the farm which Council advised Haskins 
to apply for ; and the next day Council hitched up his 
team and drove down town to see Butler. 

“You jest let me do the talkin’,” he said. “We’ll 
find him wearin’ out his pants on some salt barrel some- 
w’ers ; and if he thought you wanted a place he’d sock 
it to you hot and heavy. You jest keep quiet > I’ll fix 

?* y> 

im. 

Butler was seated in Ben Ashley’s store telling fish 
yarns when Council sauntered in casually. 

“ Hello, But ; lyin’ agin, hey ? ” 

“ Hello, Steve ! how goes it ? ” 

“ Oh, so-so. Too dang much rain these days. I 
thought it was goin’ t’ freeze up f’r good last night. 
Tight squeak if I get m’ ploughin’ done. How’s 
farmin’ with you these days ? ” 

“ Bad. Ploughin’ ain’t half done.” 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


207 

Cl It ’ud be a religious idee f’r you t’ go out an’ take 
a hand y’rself.” 

u I don’t haff to,” said Butler, with a wink. 

“ Got anybody on the Higley place ? ” 

“ No. Know of anybody ? ” 

“Waal, no; not eggsackly. Pve got a relation back 
t’ Michigan who’s ben hot an’ cold on the idee o’ cornin’ 
West f’r some time. Might come if he could get a good 
lay-out. What do you talk on the farm ? ” 

“ Well, I d’ know. I’ll rent it on shares or I’ll rent 
it money rent.” 

“ Waal, how much money, say ? ” 

“Well, say ten per cent, on the price — two- 
fifty.” 

“ Waal, that ain’t bad. Wait on ’im till ’e 
thrashes ? ” 

Haskins listened eagerly to his important question, 
but Council was coolly eating a dried apple which he 
had speared out of a barrel with his knife. Butler studied 
him carefully. 

“Well, knocks me out of twenty-five dollars in- 
terest.” 

“ My relation’ll need all he’s got t’ git his crops in,” 
said Council, in the safe, indifferent way. 

“ Well, all right ; say wait,” concluded Butler. 

“ All right ; this is the man. Haskins, this is Mr. 
Butler — no relation to Ben — the hardest-working man 
in Cedar County.” 

On the way home Haskins said : “ I ain’t much 

better off. I’d like that farm ; it’s a good farm, but it’s 


208 


Main -Travelled Roads 


all run down, an’ so ’m I. I could make a good farm 
of it if I had half a show. But I can’t stock it n’r 
seed it.” 

“Waal, now, don’t you worry,” roared Council in 
his ear. “ We’ll pull y’ through somehow till next 
harvest. He’s agreed t’ hire it ploughed, an’ you can 
earn a hundred dollars ploughin’ an’ y’ c’n git the seed 
o’ me, an’ pay me back when y’ can.” 

Haskins was silent with emotion, but at last he said, 
“I ain’t got nothin’ t’ live on.” 

“Now, don’t you worry ’bout that. You jest make 
your headquarters at ol’ Steve Council’s. Mother’ll 
take a pile o’ comfort in havin’ y’r wife an’ children 
’round. Y’ see, Jane’s married off lately, an’ Ike’s 
away a good ’eal, so we’ll be darn glad t’ have y’ stop 
with us this winter. Nex’ spring we’ll see if y’ can’t 
git a start agin.” And he chirruped to the team, which 
sprang forward with the rumbling, clattering wagon. 

“ Say, looky here, Council, you can’t do this. I never 
saw — ” shouted Haskins in his neighbor’s ear. 

Council moved about uneasily in his seat and stopped 
his stammering gratitude by saying : “ Hold on, now ; 
don’t make such a fuss over a little thing. When I see 
a man down, an’ things all on top of ’m, I jest like t’ 
kick ’em off an’ help ’m up. That’s the kind of re- 
ligion I got, an’ it’s about the only kind.” 

They rode the rest of the way home in silence. And 
when the red light of the lamp shone out into the dark- 
ness of the cold and windy night, and he thought of 
this refuge for his children and wife, Haskins could 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


209 


have put his arm around the neck of his burly com- 
panion and squeezed him like a lover. But he con- 
tented himself with saying, “ Steve Council, you’ll 
git y’r pay f ’r this some day.” 

“ Don’t want any pay. My religion ain’t run on such 
business principles.” 

The wind was growing colder, and the ground was 
covered with a white frost, as they turned into the gate 
of the Council farm, and the children came rushing out, 
shouting, u Papa’s come ! ” They hardly looked like 
the same children who had sat at the table the night 
before. Their torpidity, under the influence of sunshine 
and Mother Council, had given way to a sort of spas- 
modic cheerfulness, as insects in winter revive when 
laid on the hearth. 


Ill 

Haskins worked like a fiend, and his wife, like the 
heroic woman that she was, bore also uncomplainingly 
the most terrible burdens. They rose early and toiled 
without intermission till the darkness fell on the plain, 
then tumbled into bed, every bone and muscle aching 
with fatigue, to rise with the sun next morning to the 
same round of the same ferocity of labor. 

The eldest boy drove a team all through the spring, 
ploughing and seeding, milked the cows, and did chores 
innumerable, in most ways taking the place of a 
man. 

p 


210 


Main -Travelled Roads 


An infinitely pathetic but common figure — this boy 
on the American farm, where there is no law against 
child labor. To see him in his coarse clothing, his 
huge boots, and his ragged cap, as he staggered with a 
pail of water from the well, or trudged in the cold and 
cheerless dawn out into the frosty field behind his team, 
gave the city-bred visitor a sharp pang of sympathetic 
pain. Yet Haskins loved his boy, and would have saved 
him from this if he could, but he could not. 

By June the first year the result of such Herculean toil 
began to show on the farm. The yard was cleaned up 
and sown to grass, the garden ploughed and planted, and 
the house mended. 

Council had given them four of his cows. 

u Take ’em an’ run ’em on shares. I don’t want ’o 
milk s’ many. Ike’s away s’ much now, Sat’d’ys an’ 
Sund’ys, I can’t stand the bother anyhow.” 

Other men, seeing the confidence of Council in the 
newcomer, had sold him tools on time ; and as he was 
really an able farmer, he soon had round him many evi- 
dences of his care and thrift. At the advice of Council 
he had taken the farm for three years, with the privilege 
of re-renting or buying at the end of the term. 

“ It’s a good bargain, an’ y’ want ’o nail it,” said 
Council. “If you have any kind ov a crop, you c’n 
pay y’r debts, an’ keep seed an’ bread.” 

The new hope which now sprang up in the heart of 
Haskins and his wife grew great almost as a pain by the 
time the wide field of wheat began to wave and rustle 
and swirl in the winds of July. Day after day he 


Under the Lion's Paw 21 1 

would snatch a few moments after supper to go and look 
at it. 

“ Have ye seen the wheat t’-day, Nettie ? ” he asked 
one night as he rose from supper. 

“ No, Tim, I ain’t had time.” 

“ Well, take time now. Le’s go look at it.” 

She threw an old hat on her head — Tommy’s hat — . 
and looking almost pretty in her thin, sad way, went out 
with her husband to the hedge. 

“ Ain’t it grand, Nettie ? Just look at it.” 

It was grand. Level, russet here and there, heavy- 
headed, wide as a lake, and full of multitudinous whis- 
pers and gleams of wealth, it stretched away before the 
gazers like the fabled field of the cloth of gold. 

“ Oh, I think — I hope we’ll have a good crop, Tim; 
and oh, how good the people have been to us ! ” 

“ Yes ; I don’t know where we’d be t’-day if it hadn’t 
ben f’r Council and his wife.” 

u They’re the best people in the world,” said the little 
woman, with a great sob of gratitude. 

u We’ll be in the field on Monday, sure,” said Haskins, 
gripping the rail on the fence as if already at the work 
of the harvest. 

The harvest came, bounteous, glorious, but the winds 
came and blew it into tangles, and the rain matted it 
here and there close to the ground, increasing the work 
of gathering it threefold. 

Oh, how they toiled in those glorious days ! Cloth- 
ing dripping with sweat, arms aching, filled with briers, 
fingers raw and bleeding, backs broken with the weight 


212 


Main -Travelled Roads 


of heavy bundles, Haskins and his man toiled on. 
Tommy drove the harvester, while his father and a 
hired man bound on the machine. In this way they 
cut ten acres every day, and almost every night after sup- 
per, when the hand went to bed, Haskins returned to 
the field shocking the bound grain in the light of the 
moon. Many a night he worked till his anxious wife 
came out at ten o’clock to call him in to rest and lunch. 

At the same time she cooked for the men, took care 
of the children, washed and ironed, milked the cows at 
night, made the butter, and sometimes fed the horses and 
watered them while her husband kept at the shocking. 

No slave in the Roman galleys could have toiled so 
frightfully and lived, for this man thought himself a free 
man, and that he was working for his wife and babes. 

When he sank into his bed with a deep groan of re- 
lief, too tired to change his grimy, dripping clothing, he 
felt that he was getting nearer and nearer to a home of 
his own, and pushing the wolf of want a little farther 
from his door. 

There is no despair so deep as the despair of a home- 
less man or woman. To roam the roads of the country 
or the streets of the city, to feel there is no rood of 
ground on which the feet can rest, to halt weary and 
hungry outside lighted windows and hear laughter and 
song within, — these are the hungers and rebellions that 
drive men to crime and women to shame. 

It was the memory of this homelessness, and the fear of 
its coming again, that spurred Timothy Haskins and Net- 
tie, his wife, to such ferocious labor during that first year. 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


21 3 


IV 

w ’M, yes ; ’m, yes ; first-rate,” said Butler, as his eye 
took in the neat garden, the pig-pen, and the well-filled 
barnyard. “ You’re gitt’n’ quite a stock around yeh. 
Done well, eh ? ” 

Haskins was showing Butler around the place. He 
had not seen it for a year, having spent the year in 
Washington and Boston with Ashley, his brother-in-law, 
who had been elected to Congress. 

“ Yes, I’ve laid out a good deal of money durin’ the 
last three years. Pve paid out three hundred dollars f’r 
fencin’.” 

“ Um — h’m ! I see, I see,” said Butler, while Has- 
kins went on : 

“ The kitchen there cost two hundred ; the barn ain’t 
cost much in money, but I’ve put a lot o’ time on it. I’ve 
dug a new well, and I — ” 

u Yes, yes, I see. You’ve done well. Stock worth a 
thousand dollars,” said Butler, picking his teeth with a 
straw. 

“ About that,” said Haskins, modestly. “We begin 
to feel ’s if we was gitt’n’ a home f’r ourselves ; but we’ve 
worked hard. I tell you we begin to feel it, Mr. Butler, 
and we’re goin’ t’ begin to ease up purty soon. We’ve 
been kind o’ plannin’ a trip back t’ her folks after the 
fall ploughin’s done.” 

“ Eggs-nct\y ! ” said Butler, who was evidently think- 
ing of something else. “ I suppose you’ve kind o’ cal- 
c’lated on stayin’ here three years more ? ” 


214 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Well, yes. Fact is, I think I c’n buy the farm this 
fall, if you’ll give me a reasonable show.” 

“ Um — m ! What do you call a reasonable show ? ” 
“Well, say a quarter down and three years’ time.” 
Butler looked at the huge stacks of wheat, which 
filled the yard, over which the chickens were fluttering 
and crawling, catching grasshoppers, and out of which 
the crickets were singing innumerably. He smiled in a 
peculiar way as he said, “ Oh, I won’t be hard on yeh. 
But what did you expect to pay f’r the place ? ” 

“ Why, about what you offered it for before, two 
thousand five hundred, or possibly three thousand dollars,” 
he added quickly, as he saw the owner shake his head. 

u This farm is worth five thousand and five hundred 
dollars,” said Butler, in a careless and decided voice. 

“ IVhat ! ” almost shrieked the astounded Haskins. 
“ What’s that ? Five thousand ? Why, that’s double 
what you offered it for three years ago.” 

“ Of course, and it’s worth it. It was all run down 
then ; now it’s in good shape. You’ve laid out fifteen 
hundred dollars in improvements, according to your own 
story.” 

u But you had nothin’ t’ do about that. It’s my work 
an’ my money.” 

“You bet it was; but it’s my land.” 

“ But what’s to pay me for all my — ” 
a Ain’t you had the use of ’em ? ” replied Butler, 
smiling calmly into his face. 

Haskins was like a man struck on the head with a 
sandbag ; he couldn’t think ; he stammered as he tried 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


215 


to say: “But — I never’ d git the use — You’d rob 
me! More’n that: you agreed — you promised that I 
could buy or rent at the end of three years at — • ” 

“ That’s all right. But I didn’t say I’d let you carry 
off the improvements, nor that I’d go on renting the 
farm at two-fifty. The land is doubled in value, it 
don’t matter how ; it don’t enter into the question ; an’ 
now you can pay me five hundred dollars a year rent, or 
take it on your own terms at fifty-five hundred, or — git 
out.” 

He was turning away when Haskins, the sweat pour- 
ing from his face, fronted him, saying again : 

“But you've done nothing to make it so. You hain’t 
added a cent. I put it all there myself, expectin’ to buy. 
I worked an’ sweat to improve it. I was workin’ for 
myself an’ babes — ” 

“ Well, why didn’t you buy when I offered to sell ? 
What y’ kickin’ about ? ” 

“ I’m kickin’ about payin’ you twice Pr my own 
things, — my own fences, my own kitchen, my own 
garden.” 

Butler laughed. “ You’re too green t’ eat, young feller. 
Tour improvements ! The law will sing another tune.” 

“ But I trusted your word.” 

“Never trust anybody, my friend. Besides, I didn’t 
promise not to do this thing. Why, man, don’t look at 
me like that. Don’t take me for a thief. It’s the law 0 
The reg’lar thing. Everybody does it.” 

“ I don’t care if they do. It’s stealin’ jest the same. 
You take three thousand dollars of my money — the 


21 6 


Main -Travelled Roads 


work o’ my hands and my wife’s.” He broke down at 
this point. He was not a strong man mentally. He 
could face hardship, ceaseless toil, but he could not face 
the cold and sneering face of Butler. 

“But I don’t take it,” said Butler, coolly. “All 
you’ve got to do is to go on jest as you’ve been a-doin’, 
or give me a thousand dollars down, and a mortgage at 
ten per cent on the rest. 

Haskins sat down blindly on a bundle of oats near by, 
and with staring eyes and drooping head went over the 
situation. He was under the lion’s paw. He felt a 
horrible numbness in his heart and limbs. He was hid 
in a mist, and there was no path out. 

Butler walked about, looking at the huge stacks of 
grain, and pulling now and again a few handfuls out, 
shelling the heads in his hands and blowing the chaff 
away. He hummed a little tune as he did so. He had 
an accommodating air of waiting. 

Haskins was in the midst of the terrible toil of the 
last year. He was walking again in the rain and the 
mud behind his plough ; he felt the dust and dirt of 
the threshing. The ferocious husking-time, with its 
cutting wind and biting, clinging snows, lay hard upon 
him. Then he thought of his wife, how she had cheer- 
fully cooked and baked, without holiday and without 
rest. 

“Well, what do you think of it? ” inquired the cool, 
mocking, insinuating voice of Butler. 

“ I think you’re a thief and a liar ! ” shouted Haskins, 
Heaping up. “ A black-hearted houn’ ! ” Butler’s smile 


Under the Lion’s Paw 


217 


maddened him ; with a sudden leap he caught a fork in 
his hands, and whirled it in the air. “ You’ll never rob 
another man, damn ye ! ” he grated through his teeth, a 
look of pitiless ferocity in his accusing eyes. 

Butler shrank and quivered, expecting the blow; stood, 
held hypnotized by the eyes of the man he had a 
moment before despised — a man transformed into an 
avenging demon. But in the deadly hush between the 
lift of the weapon and its fall there came a gush of faint, 
childish laughter and then across the range of his vision, 
far away and dim, he saw the sun-bright head of his 
baby girl, as, with the pretty, tottering run of a two- 
year-old, she moved across the grass of the dooryard. 
His hands relaxed ; the fork fell to the ground; his head 
lowered. 

u Make out y’r deed an’ mor’gage, an’ git ofF’n my 
land, an’ don’t ye never cross my line agin ; if y’ do, 
I’ll kill ye.” 

Butler backed away from the man in wild haste, and 
climbing into his buggy with trembling limbs drove off 
down the road, leaving Haskins seated- dumbly on the 
sunny pile of sheaves, his head sunk into his hands. 





THE CREAMERY MAN 


“ Along these woods in storm 
and sun the busy people go" 

















THE CREAMERY MAN 


The tin-pedler has gone out of the West. Amiable 
gossip and sharp trader that he was, his visits once 
brought a sharp business grapple to the farmer’s wife 
and daughters, after which, as the man of trade was 
repacking his unsold wares, a moment of cheerful talk 
often took place. It was his cue, if he chanced to be a 
tactful pedler, to drop all attempts at sale and become 
distinctly human and neighborly. 

His calls were not always well received, but they 
were at their best pleasant breaks of a monotonous 
round of duties. But he is no longer a familiar spot on 
the landscape. He has passed into the limbo of the 
things no longer necessary. His red wagon may be 
rumbling and rattling through some newer region, but 
the u Coolly Country ” knows him no more. 

u The creamery man ” has taken his place. Every 
afternoon, rain or shine, the wagons of the North Star 
Creamery in “ Dutcher’s Coolly ” stop at the farmers’ 
windmills to skim the cream from the “ submerged 
cans.” His wagon is not gay; it is generally battered 
and covered with mud and filled with tall cans ; but 
the driver himself is generally young and sometimes 
attractive. The driver in Molasses Gap, which is a 
small coolly leading into Dutcher’s Coolly, was particu- 
larly good-looking and amusing. 


221 


212 


Main -Travelled Roads 


He was aware of his good looks, and his dress not 
only showed that he was single, but that he hoped to 
be married soon. He wore brown trousers, which 
fitted him very well, and a dark blue shirt, which had a 
gay lacing of red cord in front, and a pair of suspenders 
that were a vivid green. On his head he wore a 
Chinese straw helmet, which was as ugly as anything 
could conceivably be, but he was as proud of it as he 
was of his green suspenders. In summer he wore no 
coat at all, and even in pretty cold weather he left his 
vest on his wagon-seat, not being able to bring him- 
self to the point of covering up the red and green of 
his attire. 

It was noticeable that the women of the neighbor- 
hood always came out, even on wash-day, to see that 
Claude (his name was Claude Williams) measured the 
cream properly. There was much banter about this. 
Mrs. Kennedy always said she wouldn’t trust him 
M fur’s you can fling a yearlin’ bull by the tail.” 

“ Now that’s the difference between us,” he would 
reply. “ I’d trust you anywhere. Anybody with such 
a daughter as your’n.” 

He seldom got further, for Lucindy always said (in 
substance), u Oh, you go ’long.” 

There need be no mystery in the matter. ’Cindy was 
the girl for whose delight he wore the green and red. He 
made no secret of his love, and she made no secret of her 
scorn. She laughed at his green ’spenders and the “ red 
shoestring ” in his shirt ; but Claude considered him- 
self very learned in women’s ways, by reason of two 


The Creamery Man 223 

years’ driving the creamery wagon, and he merely 
winked at Mrs. Kennedy when the girl was looking, 
and kissed his hand at ’Cindy when her mother was not 
looking. 

He looked forward every afternoon to these little ex- 
changes of wit, and was depressed when for any reason 
the women folks were away. There were other places 
pleasanter than the Kennedy farm — some of “the 
Dutchmen” had fine big brick houses and finer and 
bigger barns, but their women were mostly homely, and 
went around bare-footed and bare-legged, with ugly blue 
dresses hanging frayed and greasy round their lank ribs 
and big joints. 

44 Someway their big houses have a look like a stable 
when you get close to ’em,” Claude said to ’Cindy once. 
u Their women work so much in the field they don’t 
have any time to fix up — the way you do. I don’t 
believe in women workin’ in the fields.” He said this 
looking ’Cindy in the face. 44 My wife needn’t set her 
foot outdoors ’less she’s a mind to.” 

44 Oh, you can talk,” replied the girl, scornfully, 44 but 
you’d be like the rest of ’em.” But she was glad that 
she had on a clean collar and apron — if it was ironing- 
day. 

What Claude would have said further ’Cindy could 
not divine, for her mother called her away, as she 
generally did when she saw her daughter lingering too 
long with the creamery man. Claude was not con- 
sidered a suitable match for Lucindy Kennedy, whose 
father owned one of the finest farms in the Coolly. 


224 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Worldly considerations hold in Molasses Gap as well as 
in Bluff Siding and Tyre. 

But Claude gave little heed to these moods in Mrs. 
Kennedy. If ’Cindy sputtered, he laughed ; and if she 
smiled, he rode on whistling till he came to old man 
Haldeman’s, who owned the whole lower half of Molas- 
ses Gap, and had one unmarried daughter, who thought 
Claude one of the handsomest men in the world. She 
was always at the gate to greet him as he drove up, and 
forced sections of cake and pieces of gooseberry pie upon 
him each day. 

u She’s good enough — for a Dutchman,” Claude said 
of her, “ but I hate to see a woman go around looking 
as if her clothes would drop off if it rained on her. And 
on Sundays, when she dresses up, she looks like a boy 
. 'gged out in some girl’s cast-off duds.” 

This was pretty hard on Nina. She was tall and 
lank and sandy, with small blue eyes, her limbs were 
heavy, and she did wear her Sunday clothes badly, but 
she was a good, generous soul, and very much in love 
with the creamery man. She was not very clean, but 
then she could not help that ; the dust of the field is no 
respecter of sex. No, she was not lovely, but she was 
the only daughter of old Ernest Haldeman, and the old 
man was not very strong. 

Claude was the daily bulletin of the Gap. He knew 
whose cow died the night before, who was at the straw- 
berry dance, and all about Abe Anderson’s night in jail 
up at the Siding. If his coming was welcome to the 
Kennedy’s, who took the Siding Gimlet and the 


The Creamery Man 225 

county paper, how much the more cordial ought his 
greeting to be at Haldeman’s, where they only took the 
Milwaukee Weekly Freiheit. 

Nina in her poor way had longings and aspirations. 
She wanted to marry u a Yankee,” and not one of her 
own kind. She had a little schooling obtained at the small 
brick shed under the towering cottonwood tree at the 
corner of her father’s farm ; but her life had been one of 
hard work and mighty little play. Her parents spoke in 
German about the farm, and could speak English only 
very brokenly. Her only brother had adventured into 
the foreign parts of Pine County, and had been killed in 
a sawmill. Her life was lonely and hard. 

She had suitors among the Germans, plenty of them, 
but she had a disgust of them — considered as possible 
husbands — and though she went to their beery dances 
occasionally, she had always in her mind the ease, light- 
ness, and color of Claude. She knew that the Yankee 
girls did not work in the fields, — even the Norwegian 
girls seldom did so now, they worked out in town, — but 
she had been brought up to hoe and pull weeds from her 
childhood, and her father and mother considered it good 
for her, and being a gentle and obedient child, she still 
continued to do as she was told. Claude pitied the girl, 
and used to talk with her, during his short stay, in his 
cheeriest manner. 

“ Hello, Nina ! How you vass, ain’t it ? How much 
cream already you got this morning ? Did you hear the 
news, not ? ” 

“ No, vot hass happened ? ” 

Q 


226 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Everything. Frank McVey’s horse stepped througn 
the bridge and broke his leg, and he’s going to sue the 
county — mean Frank is, not the horse.” 

“ Iss dot so ? ” 

u Sure! and Bill Hetner had a fight, and Julia Door- 
flinger’s got home.” 

“ Vot wass Bill fightding apoudt? ” 

“ Oh, drunk — fighting for exercise. Hain’t got a 
fresh pie cut ? ” 

Her face lighted up, and she turned so suddenly to go 
that her bare leg showed below her dress. Her unstock- 
inged feet were thrust into coarse working shoes. Claude 
wrinkled his nose in disgust, but he took the piece of 
green currant pie on the palm of his hand and bit the 
acute angle from it. 

u First rate. You do make lickin’ good pies,” he said, 
out of pure kindness of heart ; and Nina was radiant. 

u She wouldn’t be so bad-lookin’ if they didn’t work 
her in the fields like a horse,” he said to himself as he 
drove away. 

The neighbors were well aware of Nina’s devotion, 
and Mrs. Smith, who lived two or three houses down 
the road, said, “ Good-evening, Claude. Seen Nina to- 
day ? ” 

u Sure ! and she gave me a piece of currant pie — her 
own make.” 

“ Did you eat it ? ” 

“ Did I ? I guess yes. I ain’t refusin’ pie from 
Nina — not while her pa has five hundred acres of the 
best land in Molasses Gap.” 


The Creamery Man 227 

Now, it was this innocent joking on his part that 
started all Claude’s trouble. Mrs. Smith called a couple 
of days later, and had her joke with ’Cindy. 
w ’Cindy, your cake’s all dough.” 
w Why, what’s the matter now ? ” 
cc Claude come along t’other day grinnin’ from ear to 
ear, and some currant pie in his musstache. He had 
jest fixed it up with Nina. He jest as much as said he 
was after the old man’s acres.” 

“ Well, let him have ’em. I don’t know as it inter- 
ests me,” replied ’Cindy, waving her head like a banner. 
“ If he wants to sell himself to that greasy Dutchwoman 
— why, let him, that’s all ! I don’t care.” 

Her heated manner betrayed her to Mrs. Smith, who 
laughed with huge enjoyment. 
u Well, you better watch out ! ” 

The next day was very warm, and when Claude drove 
up under the shade of the big maples he was ready for a 
chat while his horses rested, but ’Cindy was nowhere to 
be seen. Mrs. Kennedy came out to get the amount of the 
skimming, and started to reenter the house without talk. 
tc Where’s the young folks ? ” asked Claude, carelessly. 
u If you mean Lucindy, she’s in the house.” 

4C Ain’t sick or nothin’, is she ? ” 

“ Not that anybody knows of. Don’t expect her to 
be here to gass with you every time, do ye ? ” 

u Well, I wouldn’t mind,” replied Claude. He was 
too keen not to see his chance. “ In fact, I’d like to 
have her with me all the time, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said, 
with engaging frankness. 


228 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Well, you can’t have her,” the mother replied un- 
graciously. 

“ What’s the matter with me ? ” 

“ Oh, I like you well enough, but ’Cindy’d be a big 
fool to marry a man without a roof to cover his head.” 

“ That’s where you take your inning, sure,” Claude 
replied. “I’m not much better than a hired hand. 
Well, now, see here, I’m going to make a strike one of 
these days, and then — look out for me! You don’t 
know but what I’ve invested in a gold mine. I may be 
a Dutch lord in disguise. Better not be brash.” 

Mrs. Kennedy’s sourness could not stand against such 
sweetness and drollery. She smiled in wry fashion. 
“ You’d better be moving, or you’ll be late.” 

“ Sure enough. If I only had you for a mother-in-law 
— that’s why I’m so poor. Nobody to keep me moving. 
If I had some one to do the talking for me, I’d work.” 
He grinned broadly and drove out. 

His irritation led him to say some things to Nina which 
he would not have thought of saying the day before. She 
had been working in the field, and had dropped her hoe 
to see him. 

“ Say, Nina, I wouldn’t work outdoors such a day as 
this if I was you. I’d tell the old man to go to thunder, 
and I’d go in and wash up and look decent. Yankee 
women don’t do that kind of work, and your old dad’s 
rich ; no use of your sweatin’ around a corn-field with a 
hoe in your hands. I don’t like to see a woman goin’ 
round without stockin’s, and her hands all chapped and 
calloused. It ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle. No, sir ! I 


The Creamery Man 229 

wouldn't stand it. I’d serve an injunction on the old 
man right now.” 

A dull, slow flush crept into the girl’s face and she 
put one hand over the other as they rested on the fence. 
One looked so much less monstrous than two. 

Claude went on, u Yes, sir ! I’d brace up and go to 
Yankee meeting instead of Dutch ; you’d pick up a Yan- 
kee beau like as not.” 

He gathered his cream while she stood silently by, and 
when he looked at her again she was in deep thought. 

u Good-day,” he said cheerily. 

u Good-by,” she replied, and her face flushed again. 

It rained that night and the roads were very bad, and 
he was late the next time he arrived at Haldeman’s. 
Nina came out in her best dress, but he said nothing 
about it, supposing she was going to town or something 
like that, and he hurried through with his task and had 
mounted his seat before he realized that anything was 
wrong. 

Then Mrs. Haldeman appeared at the kitchen door 
and hurled a lot of unintelligible German at him. He 
knew she was mad, and mad at him, and also at Nina, 
for she shook her fist at them alternately. 

Singular to tell, Nina paid no attention to her mother’s 
sputter. She looked at Claude with a certain timid au- 
dacity. 

“ How you like me to-day ? ” 

u That’s better,” he said, as he eyed her critically. 
“ Now you’re talkin’ ! I’d do a little reading of the news- 
paper myself, if I was you. A woman’s business ain’t 


230 


Main -Travelled Roads 


to work out in the hot sun — it’s to cook and fix up 
things round the house, and then put on her clean dress 
and set in the shade and read or sew on something. 
Stand up to ’em ! doggone me if I’d paddle round that hot 
corn-field with a mess o’ Dutchmen — it ain’t decent ! ” 
He drove off* with a chuckle at the old man, who was 
seated at the back of the house with a newspaper in his 
hand. He was lame, or pretended he was, and made his 
wife and daughter wait upon him. Claude had no con- 
ception of what was working in Nina’s mind, but he 
could not help observing the changes for the better in 
her appearance. Each day he called she was neatly 
dressed, and wore her shoes laced up to the very top 
hook. 

She was passing through tribulation on his account, but 
she said nothing about it. The old man, her father, no 
longer spoke to her, and the mother sputtered continu- 
ally, but the girl seemed sustained by some inner power. 
She calmly went about doing as she pleased, and no fury 
of words could check her or turn her aside. 

Her hands grew smooth and supple once more, and 
her face lost the parboiled look it once had. 

Claude noticed all these gains, and commented on 
them with the freedom of a man who had established 
friendly relations with a child. 

“ I tell you what, Nina, you’re coming along, sure. 
Next ground hop you’ll be wearin’ silk stockin’s and 
high-heeled shoes. How’s the old man ? Still mad ? ” 
u He don’t speak to me no more. My mudder says 
I am a big fool.” 


The Creamery Man 231 

“She does? Well, you tell her I think you’re just 
getting sensible.” 

She smiled again, and there was a subtle quality in 
the mixture of boldness and timidity of her manner. 
His praise was so sweet and stimulating. 

“ I sold my pigs,” she said. “ The old man, he wass 
madt, but I didn’t mind. I pought me a new dress 
with the money.” 

“ That’s right ! I like to see a woman have plenty of 
new dresses,” Claude replied. He was really enjoying 
the girl’s rebellion and growing womanliness. 

Meanwhile his own affairs with Lucindy were in a 
bad way. He seldom saw her now. Mrs. Smith was 
careful to convey to her that Claude stopped longer 
than was necessary at Haldeman’s, and so Mrs. Ken- 
nedy attended to the matter of recording the cream. 
Kennedy himself was always in the field, and Claude 
had no opportunity for a conversation with him, as 
he very much wished to have. Once, when he saw 
’Cindy in the kitchen at work, he left his team to rest 
in the shade and sauntered to the door and looked 
in. 

She was kneading out cake dough, and she looked the 
loveliest thing he had ever seen. Her sleeves were 
rolled up. Her neat brown dress was covered with a 
big apron, and her collar was open a little at the throat, 
for it was warm in the kitchen. She frowned when she 
saw him. 

He began jocularly. “ Oh, thank you, I can wait 
till it bakes. No trouble at all.” 


Main-Travelled Roads 


232 

“ Well, it’s a good deal of trouble to me to have you 
standin’ there gappin’ at me ! ” 

“ Ain’t gappin’ at you. I’m waitin’ for the pie.” 

“’Tain’t pie; it’s cake.” 

“ Oh, well, cake’ll do for a change. Say, ’Cindy — ” 

“ Don’t call me ’Cindy ! ” 

“Well, Lucindy. It’s mighty lonesome when I don’t 
see you on my trips.” 

u Oh, I guess you can stand it with Nina to talk to.” 

“ Aha ! jealous, are you ? ” 

“Jealous of that Dutchwoman! I don’t care who 
you talk to, and you needn’t think it.” 

Claude was learned in woman’s ways, and this pleased 
him mightily. 

“ Well, when shall I speak to your daddy ? ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean, and I don’t care.” 

“ Oh, yes, you do. I’m going to come up here 
next Sunday in my best bib and tucker, and I’m going 
to say, c Mr. Kennedy ’ — ” 

The sound of Mrs. Kennedy’s voice and footsteps 
approaching made Claude suddenly remember his duties. 

“See ye later,” he said, with a grin. “I’ll call for 
the cake next time.” 

“ Call till you split your throat, if you want to,” said 
’Cindy. 

Apparently this could have gone on indefinitely, but 
it didn’t. Lucindy went to Minneapolis for a few 
weeks to stay with her brother, and that threw Claude 
deeper into despair than anything Mrs. Kennedy might 
do or any word Lucindy might say. It was a dreadful 


233 


The Creamery Man 

blow to him to have her pack up and go so suddenly, 
and without one backward look at him, and, besides, 
he had planned taking her to Tyre on the Fourth of 

July. 

Mr. Kennedy, much better-natured than the mother, 
told Claude where she had gone. 

“ By mighty ! That’s a knock on the nose for me. 
When did she go ? ” 

“ Yistady. I took her down to the Siding.” 

“ When’s she coming back ? ” 

u Oh, after the hot weather is over ; four or five 
weeks.” 

u I hope I’ll be alive when she returns,” said Claude, 
gloomily. 

Naturally he had a little more time to give to Nina 
and her remarkable doings, which had set the whole 
neighborhood to wondering w what had come over the 
girl.” 

She no longer worked in the field. She dressed better, 
and had taken to going to the most fashionable church 
in town. She was as a woman transformed. Nothing 
was able to prevent her steady progression and bloom. 
She grew plumper and fairer, and became so much more 
attractive that the young Germans thickened round her, 
and one or two Yankee boys looked her way. Through 
it all Claude kept up his half-humorous banter and alto- 
gether serious daily advice, without once realizing that any- 
thing sentimental connected him with it all. He knew 
she liked him, and sometimes he felt a little annoyed by 
her attempts to please him, but that she was doing all 


23 4 


Main -Travelled Roads 


that she did and ordering her whole life to please him 
never entered his self-sufficient head. 

There wasn’t much room left in that head for any one 
else except Lucindy, and his plans for winning her. 
Plan as he might, he saw no way of making more than the 
two dollars a day he was earning as a cream collector. 

Things ran along thus from week to week till it was 
nearly time for Lucindy to return. Claude was having 
his top buggy repainted, and was preparing for a vigor- 
ous campaign when Lucindy should be at home again. 
He owned his team and wagon and the buggy — nothing 
more. 

One Saturday Mr. Kennedy said, u Lucindy’s coming 
home. I’m going down after her to-night.” 

“ Let me bring her up,” said Claude, with suspicious 
eagerness. 

Mr. Kennedy hesitated. “ No, I guess I’ll go myself. 
I want to go to town, anyway.” 

Claude was in high spirits as he drove into Haldeman’s 
yard that afternoon. 

Nina was leaning over the fence singing softly to her- 
self, but a fierce altercation was going on inside the 
house. The walls resounded. It was all Dutch to 
Claude, but he knew the old people were quarrelling. 

Nina smiled and colored as Claude drew up at the 
side gate. She seemed not to hear the eloquent discus** 
sion inside. 

w What’s going on ? ” asked Claude. 

“ Dey tink I am in house.” 

“ How’s that ? ” 


235 


The Creamery Man 

“ My mudder she lock me up.” 

Claude stared. “Locked you up? What for?” 

“ She tondt like it dot I come out to see you.” 

“ Oh, she don’t ? ” said Claude. “ What’s the matter 
o’ me ? I ain’t a dangerous chap. I ain’t eatin’ up 
little girls.” 

Nina went on placidly. “ She saidt dot you was goin’ 
to marry me undt get the farm.” 

Claude grinned, then chuckled, and at last roared and 
whooped with the delight of it. He took off his hat and 
said : 

“ She said that, did she ? Why, bless her old cab- 
bage head — ” 

The opening of the door and the sudden irruption of 
Frau Haldeman interrupted him. She came rushing 
toward him like a she grizzly bear, uttering a torrent of 
German expletives, and hurled herself upon him, clutch- 
ing at his hair and throat. He leaped aside and struck 
down her hands with a sweep of his hard right arm. As 
she turned to come again he shouted, 

“ Keep off! or I’ll knock you down ! ” 

But before the blow came Nina seized the infuriated 
woman from behind and threw her down, and held her 
till the old man came hobbling to the rescue. He 
seemed a little dazed by it all, and made no effort to 
assault Claude. 

The old woman, who was already black in the face 
with rage, suddenly fell limp, and Nina, kneeling beside 
her, grew white with fear. 

“ Oh, vat is the matter ! I haf kildt her l ” 


Main -Travelled Roads 


236 

Claude rushed for a bucket of water, and dashed it in 
the old woman’s face. He flooded her with slashings of 
it, especially after he saw her open her eyes, ending 
by emptying the bucket in her face. He was a little 
malicious about that. 

The mother sat up soon, wet, scared, bewildered, 
gasping. 

“ Mein Gott ! Mein Gott ! Ich bin ertrinken ! ” 

“ What does she say — she’s been drinkin’ ? Well, 
that looks reasonable.” 

“No, no — she thinks she is trouned.” 

“ Oh, drowned ! ” Claude roared again. “ Not much 
she ain’t. She’s only just getting cooled off.” 

He helped the girl get her mother to the house and 
stretch her out on a bed. The old woman seemed to 
have completely exhausted herself with her effort, and 
submitted like a child to be waited upon. Her sudden 
fainting had subdued her. 

Claude had never penetrated so far into the house 
before, and was much pleased with the neatness and good 
order of the rooms, though they were bare of furniture 
and carpets. 

As the girl came out with him to the gate he uttered 
the most serious word he had ever had with her. 

“ Now, I want you to notice,” he said, “ that I did 
nothing to call out the old lady’s rush at me. I’d ’a’ hit 
her, sure, if she’d ’a’ clinched me again. I don’t believe 
in striking a woman, but she was after my hide for the 
time bein’, and I can’t stand two such clutches in the 
same place. You don’t blame me, I hope.” 


The Creamery Man 237 

u No. You done choost ride.” 

u What do you suppose the old woman went for me 
for?” 

Nina looked down uneasily. 

“ She know you an’ me lige one anudder, an’ she is 
afrait you marry me, an’ den ven she tie you get the 
farm a-ready.” 

Claude whistled. “ Great Jehosaphat ! She really 
thinks that, does she ? Well, dog my cats ! What put 
that idea into her head ? ” 

“ I told her,” said Nina calmly. 

“ You told her ? ” Claude turned and stared at her. 
She looked down, and her face slowly grew to a deep 
red. She moved uneasily from one foot to the other, 
like an awkward, embarrassed child. As he looked at 
her standing like a culprit before him, his first impulse 
was to laugh. He was not specially refined, but he was 
a kindly man, and it suddenly occurred to him that the 
girl was suffering. 

“ Well, you were mistaken,” he said at last, gently 
enough. u I don’t know why you should think so, but I 
never thought of marrying you — never thought of it.” 

The flush faded from her face, and she stopped sway- 
ing. She lifted her eyes to his in a tearful, appealing 
stare. 

“I t’ought so — you made me t’ink so.” 

w I did ? How ? I never said a word to you about — 
liking you or — marrying — or anything like that. I — ” 
He was going to tell her he intended to marry Lucindv, 
but he checked himself. 


238 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Her lashes fell again, and the tears began to stream 
down her cheeks. She knew the worst now. His face 
had convinced her. She could not tell him the grounds 
of her belief — that every time he had said, u I don’t 
like to see a woman do this or that,” or, “ I like to see 
a woman fix up around the house,” she had considered 
his words in the light of courtship, believing that in such 
ways the Yankees made love. So she stood suffering 
dumbly while he loaded his cream-can and stood by the 
wheel ready to mount his wagon. 

He turned. “ I’m mighty sorry about it,” he said. 
“Mebbe I was to blame. I didn’t mean nothing by 
it — not a thing. It was all a mistake. Let’s shake 
hands over it, and call the whole business off.” 

He held his hand out to her, and with a low cry 
she seized it and laid her cheek upon it. He started 
back in amazement, and drew his hand away. She fell 
upon her knees in the path and covered her face with 
her apron, while he hastily mounted his seat and drove 
away. 

Nothing so profoundly moving had come into his life 
since the death of his mother, and as he rode on down 
the road he did a great deal of thinking. First it gave 
him a pleasant sensation to think a woman should care 
so much for him. He had lived a homeless life for 
years, and had come into intimate relations with few 
women, good or bad. They had always laughed with 
him (not at him, for Claude was able to take care of 
himself), and no woman before had taken him seriously, 
and there was a certain charm about the realization. 


*39 


The Creamery Man 

Then he fell to wondering what he had said or done 
to give the girl such a notion of his purposes. Perhaps 
he had been too free with his talk. He was so troubled 
that he hardly smiled once during the rest of his circuit, 
and at night he refrained from going up town, and sat 
under the trees back of the creamery, and smoked and 
pondered on the astounding situation. 

He came at last to the resolution that it was his duty 
to declare himself to Lucindy and end all uncertainty, so 
that no other woman would fall into Nina’s error. He 
was as good as an engaged man, and the world should 
know it. 

The next day, with his newly painted buggy flashing 
in the sun, and the extra dozen ivory rings he had pur- 
chased for his harnesses clashing together, he drove up 
the road as a man of leisure and a resolved lover. It 
was a beautiful day in August. 

Lucindy was getting a light tea for some friends up 
from the Siding, when she saw Claude drive up. 

“Well, for the land sake ! ” she broke out, using one 
of her mother’s phrases, “if here isn’t that creamery 
man ! ” In that phrase lay the answer to Claude’s 
question — if he had heard it. He drove in, and Mr. 
Kennedy, with impartial hospitality, went out and asked 
him to ’light and put his team in the barn. 

He did so, feeling very much exhilarated. He never 
before had gone courting in this direct and aboveboard 
fashion. He mistook the father’s hospitality for com- 
pliance in his designs. He followed his host into the 
house, and faced, with very fair composure, two girls 


240 


Main -Travelled Roads 


who smiled broadly as they shook hands with him. Mrs. 
Kennedy gave him a lax hand and a curt how-de-do, and 
Lucindy fairly scowled in answer to his radiant smile. 

She was much changed, he could see. She wore a 
dress with puffed sleeves, and her hair was dressed differ- 
ently. She seemed strange and distant, but he thought 
she was w putting that on ” for the benefit of others. 
At the table the three girls talked of things at the 
Siding, and ignored him so that he was obliged to turn 
to Farmer Kennedy for refuge. He kept his courage 
up by thinking, “Wait till we are alone.” 

After supper, when Lucindy explained that the dishes 
would have to be washed, he offered to help her in his 
best manner. 

“ Thank you, I don’t need any help,” was Lucindy’s 
curt reply. 

Ordinarily he was a man of much facility and ease in 
addressing women, but he was vastly disconcerted by 
her manner. He sat rather silently waiting for the room 
to clear. When the visitors intimated that they must 
go, he rose with cheerful alacrity. 

“ I’ll get your horse for you.” 

He helped hitch the horse into the buggy, and helped 
the girls in with a return of easy gallantry, and watched 
them drive off with joy. At last the field was clear. 

They returned to the sitting room, where the old folks 
remained for a decent interval, and then left the young 
people alone. His courage returned then, and he turned 
toward her with resolution in his voice and eyes. 

“ Lucindy,” he began. 


The Creamery Man 241 

“Miss Kennedy, please,” interrupted Lucindy, with 
cutting emphasis. 

“ I’ll be darned if I do,” he replied hotly. “ What’s 
the matter with you ? Since going to Minneapolis you 
put on a lot of city airs, it seems to me.” 

“ If you don’t like my airs, you know what you can 
do!” 

He saw his mistake. 

“ Now see here, Lucindy, there’s no sense in our 
quarrelling.” 

“ I don’t want to quarrel ; I don’t want anything to 
do with you. I wish I’d never seen you.” 

“ Oh, you don’t mean that ! after all the good talks 
we’ve had.” 

She flushed red. “ I never had any such talks with you.” 

He pursued his advantage. 

“ Oh, yes, you did, and you took pains that I should 
see you.” 

“ I didn’t ; no such thing. You came poking into 
the kitchen where you’d no business to be.” 

“Say, now, stop fooling. You like me and — ” 

“ I don’t. I hate you, and if you don’t clear out I’ll 
call father. You’re one o’ these kind o’ men that think 
if a girl looks at ’em that they want to marry ’em. I 
tell you I don’t want anything more to do with you, 
and I’m engaged to another man, and I wish you’d 
attend to your own business. So there ! I hope you’re 
satisfied.” 

Claude sat for nearly a minute in silence, then he rose. 
“ I guess you’re right. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve made 

R 


Main -Travelled Roads 


242 

a mistake in the girl.” He spoke with a curious hard- 
ness in his voice. u Good-evening, Miss Kennedy.” 

He went out with dignity and in good order. His 
retreat was not ludicrous. He left the girl with the 
feeling that she had lost her temper, and with the 
knowledge that she had uttered a lie. 

He put his horses to the buggy with a mournful self- 
pity as he saw the wheels glisten. He had done all 
this for a scornful girl who could not treat him decently. 
As he drove slowly down the road he mused deeply. It 
was a knock-down blow, surely. He was a just man, 
so far as he knew, and as he studied the situation over 
he could not blame the girl. In the light of her con- 
vincing wrath he comprehended that the sharp things 
she had said to him in the past were not make-believe — 
not love-taps, but real blows. She had not been co- 
quetting with him ; she had tried to keep him away. 
She considered herself too good for a hired man. Well, 
maybe she was. Anyhow, she had gone out of his reach, 
hopelessly. 

As he came past the Haldemans’ he saw Nina sitting 
out under the trees in the twilight. On the impulse he 
pulled in. His mind took another turn. Here was a 
woman who was open and aboveboard in her affection. 
Her words meant what they stood for. He remem- 
bered how she had bloomed out the last few months. 
She has the making of a handsome woman in her, he 
thought. 

She saw him and came out to the gate, and while he 
leaned out of his carriage she rested her arms on the gate 


The Creamery Man 243 

and looked up at him. She looked pale and sad, and he 
was touched. 

“ How’s the old lady ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, she’s up ! She is much change-ed. She is veak 
and quiet.” 

“ Quiet, is she ? Well, that’s good.” 

“ She t’inks God strike her fer her vickedness. Never 
before did she fainted like dot.” 

“Well, don’t spoil that notion in her. It may do her 
a world of good.” 

“ Der priest come. He saidt it wass a punishment. 
She saidt I should marry who I like.” 

Claude looked at her searchingly. She was certainly 
much improved. All she needed was a little encour- 
agement and advice and she would make a handsome 
wife. If the old lady had softened down, her son-in-law 
could safely throw up the creamery job and become the 
boss of the farm. The old man was used up, and the 
farm needed some one right away. 

He straightened up suddenly. cc Get your hat,” he 
said, “ and we’ll take a ride.” 

She started erect, and he could see her pale face glow 
with joy. 

u With you ? ” 

“With me. Get your best hat. We may turn up 
at the minister’s and get married — if a Sunday marriage 
is legal.” 

As she hurried up the walk he said to himself, 

“ I’ll bet it gives Lucindy a shock ! ” 

And the thought pleased him mightily. 



A DAY’S PLEASURE 


“Mainly it is long and we ary ful \ and has a 
home of toil at one end and a dull little town 
at the other ” 





A DAY’S PLEASURE 


When Markham came in from shovelling his last 
wagon-load of corn into the crib he found that his wife 
had put the children to bed, and was kneading a batch of 
dough with the dogged action of a tired and sullen woman. 

He slipped his soggy boots off his feet, and having 
laid a piece of wood on top of the stove, put his heels 
on it comfortably. His chair squeaked as he leaned 
back on its hinder legs, but he paid no attention ; he 
was used to it, exactly as he was used to his wife’s lame- 
ness and ceaseless toil. 

M That closes up my corn,” he said after a silence. u I 
guess I’ll go to town to-morrow to git my horses shod.” 

“ I guess I’ll git ready and go along,” said his wife, in 
a sorry attempt to be firm and confident of tone. 

“ What do you want to go to town fer ? ” he grumbled. 

“ What does anybody want to go to town fer ? ” she 
burst out, facing him. w I ain’t been out o’ this house fer 
six months, while you go an’ go ! ” 

“ Oh, it ain’t six months. You went down that day 
I got the mower.” 

“ When was that ? The tenth of July, and you know 
it.” 

“ Well, mebbe ’twas. I didn’t think it was so long 
ago. I ain’t no objection to your goin’, only I’m goin’ 
to take a load of wheat.” 


247 


248 


Main -Travelled Roads 


44 Well, jest leave off a sack, an’ that’ll balance me 
an’ the baby,” she said spiritedly. 

w All right,” he replied good-naturedly, seeing she was 
roused. M Only that wheat ought to be put up to-night 
if you’re goin’. You won’t have any time to hold sacks 
for me in the morning with them young ones to get off 
to school.” 

u Well, let’s go do it then,” she said, sullenly resolute. 

44 I hate to go out agin ; but I s’pose we’d better.” 

He yawned dismally and began pulling his boots on 
again, stamping his swollen feet into them with grunts 
of pain. She put on his coat and one of the boy’s caps, 
and they went out to the granary. The night was cold 
and clear. 

44 Don’t look so much like snow as it did last night,” 
said Sam. 44 It may turn warm.” 

Laying out the sacks in the light of the lantern, they 
sorted out those which were whole, and Sam climbed 
into the bin with a tin pail in his hand, and the work 
began. 

He was a sturdy fellow, and he worked desperately 
fast ; the shining tin pail dived deep into the cold wheat 
and dragged heavily on the woman’s tired hands as it 
came to the mouth of the sack, and she trembled 
with fatigue, but held on and dragged the sacks away 
when filled, and brought others, till at last Sam climbed 
out, puffing and wheezing, to tie them up. 

u I guess I’ll load ’em in the morning,” he said. 
41 You needn’t wait fer me. I’ll tie ’em up alone.” 

44 Oh, I don’t mind,” she replied, feeling a little 


A Day’s Pleasure 249 

touched by his unexpectedly easy acquiescence to her 
request. When they went back to the house the moon 
had risen. 

It had scarcely set when they were wakened by the 
crowing roosters. The man rolled stiffly out of bed and 
began rattling at the stove in the dark, cold kitchen. 

His wife arose lamer and stiffer than usual, and began 
twisting her thin hair into a knot. 

Sam did not stop to wash, but went out to the barn. 
The woman, however, hastily soused her face into the 
hard limestone water at the sink, and put the kettle on. 
Then she called the children. She knew it was early, 
and they would need several callings. She pushed 
breakfast forward, running over in her mind the things 
she must have : two spools of thread, six yards of cotton 
flannel, a can of coffee, and mittens for Kitty. These 
she must have — there were oceans of things she needed. 

The children soon came scudding down out of the 
darkness of the upstairs to dress tumultuously at the 
kitchen stove. They humped and shivered, holding up 
their bare feet from the cold floor, like chickens in new 
fallen snow. They were irritable, and snarled and 
snapped and struck like cats and dogs. Mrs. Markham 
stood it for a while with mere commands to “ hush up,” 
but at last her patience gave out, and she charged down 
on the struggling mob and cuffed them right and left. 

They ate their breakfast by lamplight, and when Sam 
went back to his work around the barnyard it was 
scarcely dawn. The children, left alone with their 
mother, began to tease her to let them go to town also. 


250 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ No, sir — nobody goes but baby. Your father’s 
goin’ to take a load of wheat.” 

She was weak with the worry of it all when she 
had sent the older children away to school and the 
kitchen work was finished. She went into the cold bed- 
room off the little sitting room and put on her best dress. 
It had never been a good fit, and now she was getting 
so thin it hung in wrinkled folds everywhere about the 
shoulders and waist. She lay down on the bed a 
moment to ease that dull pain in her back. She had a 
moment’s distaste for going out at all. The thought of 
sleep was more alluring. Then the thought of the 
long, long day, and the sickening sameness of her life, 
swept over her again, and she rose and prepared the 
baby for the journey. 

It was but little after sunns-e when Sam drove out 
into the road and started for Belleplain. His wife sat 
perched upon the wheat-sacks behind him, holding the 
baby in her lap, a cotton quilt under her, and a cotton 
horse-blanket over her knees. 

Sam was disposed to be very good-natured, and he 
talked back at her occasionally, though she could only 
understand him when he turned his face toward her. 
The baby stared out at the passing fence-posts, and 
wiggled his hands out of his mittens at every opportunity. 
He was merry at least. 

It grew warmer as they went on, and a strong south 
wind arose. The dust settled upon the woman’s shawl 
and hat. Her hair loosened and blew unkemptly about 
her face. The road which led across the high, level 


A Day’s Pleasure 251 

prairie was quite smooth and dry, but still it jolted her, and 
the pain in her back increased. She had nothing to lean 
against, and the weight of the child grew greater, till 
she was forced to place him on the sacks beside her, 
though she could not loose her hold for a moment. 

The town drew in sight — a cluster of small frame 
houses and stores on the dry prairie beside a railway 
station. There were no trees yet which could be called 
shade trees. The pitilessly severe light of the sun 
flooded everything. A few teams were hitched about, 
and in the lee of the stores a few men could be seen 
seated comfortably, their broad hat-rims flopping up and 
down, their faces brown as leather. 

Markham put his wife out at one of the grocery-stores, 
and drove off down toward the elevators to sell his wheat. 

The grocer greeted Mrs. Markham in a perfunctorily 
kind manner, and offered her a chair, which she took 
gratefully. She sat for a quarter of an hour almost 
without moving, leaning against the back of the high 
chair. At last the child began to get restless and 
troublesome, and she spent half an hour helping him 
amuse himself around the nail-kegs. 

At length she rose and went out on the walk, carrying 
the baby. She went into the dry-goods store and took 
a seat on one of the little revolving stools. A woman 
was buying some woollen goods for a dress. It was 
worth twenty-seven cents a yard, the clerk said, but he 
would knock off two cents if she took ten yards. It 
looked warm, and Mrs. Markham wished she could 
afford it for Mary. 


252 


Main -Travelled Roads 


A pretty young girl came in and laughed and chatted 
with the clerk, and bought a pair of gloves. She was 
the daughter of the grocer. Her happiness made the 
wife and mother sad. When Sam came back she asked 
him for some money. 

“ What you want to do with it ? ” he asked. 

w I want to spend it,” she said. 

She was not to be trifled with, so he gave her a dollar. 

u I need a dollar more.” 

“ Well, I’ve got to go take up that note at the bank.” 

“Well, the children’s got to have some new under- 
clo’es,” she said. 

He handed her a two-dollar bill and then went out to 
pay his note. 

She bought her cotton flannel and mittens and thread, 
and then sat leaning against the counter. It was noon, 
and she was hungry. She went out to the wagon, got 
the lunch she had brought, and took it into the grocery 
to eat it — where she could get a drink of water. 

The grocer gave the baby a stick of candy and 
handed the mother an apple. 

“ It’ll kind o’ go down with your doughnuts,” he said. 

After eating her lunch she got up and went out. 
She felt ashamed to sit there any longer. She entered 
another dry-goods store, but when the clerk came toward 
her saying, u Anything to-day, Mrs. ? ” she an- 

swered, u No, I guess not,” and turned away with foolish 
face. 

She walked up and down the street, desolately home- 
less. She did not know what to do with herself. She 


A Day's Pleasure 253 

knew no one except the grocer. She grew bitter as she 
saw a couple of ladies pass, holding their demi-trains in 
the latest city fashion. Another woman went by push- 
ing a baby carriage, in which sat a child just about as 
big as her own. It was bouncing itself up and down on 
the long slender springs, and laughing and shouting. 
Its clean round face glowed from its pretty fringed hood. 
She looked down at the dusty clothes and grimy face of 
her own little one, and walked on savagely. 

She went into the drug store where the soda fountain 
was, but it made her thirsty to sit there and she went 
out on the street again. She heard Sam laugh, and saw 
him in a group of men over by the blacksmith shop. He 
was having a good time and had forgotten her. 

Her back ached so intolerably that she concluded to 
go in and rest once more in the grocer’s chair. The 
baby was growing cross and fretful. She bought five 
cents’ worth of candy to take home to the children, and 
gave baby a little piece to keep him quiet. She wished 
Sam would come. It must be getting late. The grocer 
said it was not much after one. Time seemed terribly 
long. She felt that she ought to do something while 
she was in town. She ran over her purchases — yes, 
that was all she had planned to buy. She fell to figur- 
ing on the things she needed. It was terrible. It ran 
away up into twenty or thirty dollars at the least. Sam, 
as well as she, needed underwear for the cold win- 
ter, but they would have to wear the old ones, even if 
they were thin and ragged. She would not need a dress, 
she thought bitterly, because she never went anywhere. 


254 


Main -Travelled Roads 


She rose and went out on the street once more, and 
wandered up and down, looking at everything in the 
hope of enjoying something. 

A man from Boon Creek backed a load of apples up 
to the sidewalk, and as he stood waiting for the grocer 
he noticed Mrs. Markham and the baby, and gave the 
baby an apple. This was a pleasure. He had such a 
hearty way about him. He on his part saw an ordinary 
farmer’s wife with dusty dress, unkempt hair, and tired 
face. He did not know exactly wny she appealed to 
him, but he tried to cheer her up. 

The grocer was familiar with these bedraggled and 
weary wives. He was accustomed to see them sit for 
hours in his big wooden chair, and nurse tired and fret- 
ful children. Their forlorn, aimless, pathetic wander- 
ing up and down the street was a daily occurrence, and 
had never possessed any special meaning to him. 


II 

In a cottage around the corner from the grocery 
store two men and a woman were finishing a dainty 
luncheon. The woman was dressed in cool, white gar- 
ments, and she seemed to make the day one of perfect 
comfort. 

The home of the Honorable Mr. Hall was by no 
means the costliest in the town, but his wife made it the 
most attractive. He was one of the leading lawyers of 
the county, and a man of culture and progressive views. 


A Day’s Pleasure 255 

He was entertaining a friend who had lectured the night 
before in the Congregational church. 

They were by no means in serious discussion. The 
talk was rather frivolous. Hall had the ability to cari- 
cature men with a few gestures and attitudes, and was 
giving to his Eastern friend some descriptions of the old- 
fashioned Western lawyers he had met in his practice. 
He was very amusing, and his guest laughed heartily 
for a time. 

But suddenly Hall became aware that Otis was not 
listening. Then he perceived that he was peering out 
of the window at some one, and that on his face a look 
of bitter sadness was falling. 

Hall stopped. “ What do you see, Otis ? ” 

Otis replied, “ I see a forlorn, weary woman.” 

Mrs. Hall rose and went to the window. Mrs. 
Markham was walking by the house, her baby in her 
arms. Savage anger and weeping were in her eyes 
and on her lips, and there was hopeless tragedy in her 
shambling walk and weak back. 

In the silence Otis went on : “ I saw the poor, dejected 
creature twice this morning. I couldn’t forget her.” 

“ Who is she ? ” asked Mrs. Hall, very softly. 

u Her name is Markham ; she’s Sam Markham’s 
wife,” said Hall. 

The young wife led the way into the sitting room, 
and the men took seats and lit their cigars. Hall was 
meditating a diversion when Otis resumed suddenly : 

“ That woman came to town to-day to get a change, 
to have a little play-spell, and she’s wandering around 


Main -Travelled Roads 


256 

like a starved and weary cat. I wonder if there is a 
woman in this town with sympathy enough and courage 
enough to go out and help that woman ? The saloon- 
keepers, the politicians, and the grocers make it pleasant 
for the man — so pleasant that he forgets his wife. But 
the wife is left without a word.” 

Mrs. Hall’s work dropped, and on her pretty face was 
a look of pain. The man’s harsh words had wounded 
her — and wakened her. She took up her hat and 
hurried out on the walk. The men looked at each 
other, and then the husband said : 

“ It’s going to be a little sultry for the men around 
these diggings. Suppose we go out for a walk.” 

Delia felt a hand on her arm as she stood at the 
corner. 

“ You look tired, Mrs. Markham ; won’t you come in 
a little while ? J’m Mrs. Hall.” 

Mrs. Markham turned with a scowl on her face and 
a biting word on her tongue, but something in the sweet, 
round little face of the other woman silenced her, and 
her brow smoothed out. 

u Thank you kindly, but it’s most time to go home. 
I’m looking fer Mr. Markham now.” 

u Oh, come in a little while, the baby is cross and 
tired out j please do.” 

Mrs. Markham yielded to the friendly voice, and 
together the two women reached the gate just as two 
men hurriedly turned the other corner. 

“ Let me relieve you,” said Mrs. Hall. 

The mother hesitated : “ He’s so dusty.” 


A Day’s Pleasure 257 

u Oh, that won’t matter. Oh, what a big fellow he 
is ! I haven’t any of my own,” said Mrs. Hall, and 
a look passed like an electric spark between the two 
women, and Delia was her willing guest from that 
moment. 

They went into the little sitting room, so dainty and 
lovely to the farmer’s wife, and as she sank into an 
easy-chair she was faint and drowsy with the pleasure 
of it. She submitted to being brushed. She gave the 
baby into the hands of the Swedish girl, who washed its 
face and hands and sang it to sleep, while its mother 
sipped some tea. Through it all she lay back in her 
easy-chair, not speaking a word, while the ache passed 
out of her back, and her hot, swollen head ceased to 
throb. 

But she saw everything — the piano, the pictures, the 
curtains, the wall-paper, the little tea-stand. They were 
almost as grateful to her as the food and fragrant tea. 
Such housekeeping as this she had never seen. Her 
mother had worn her kitchen floor thin as brown paper 
in keeping a speckless house, and she had been in houses 
that were larger and costlier, but something of the charm 
of her hostess was in the arrangement of vases, chairs, or 
pictures. It was tasteful. 

Mrs. Hall did not ask about her affairs. She talked to 
her about the sturdy little baby, and about the things 
upon which Delia’s eyes dwelt. If she seemed interested 
in a vase she was told what it was and where it was 
made. She was shown all the pictures and books. Mrs. 
Hall seemed to read her visitor’s mind. She kept as far 


2j8 


Main -Travelled Roads 


from the farm and her guest’s affairs as possible, and at 
last she opened the piano and sang to her — not slow- 
moving hymns, but catchy love-songs full of sentiment, 
and then played some simple melodies, knowing that 
Mrs. Markham’s eyes were studying her hands, her rings, 
and the flash of her fingers on the keys — seeing more 
than she heard — and through it all Mrs. Hall conveyed 
the impression that she, too, was having a good time. 

The rattle of the wagon outside roused them both. 
Sam was at the gate for her. Mrs. Markham rose hast- 
ily. “ Oh, it’s almost sundown ! ” she gasped in astonish- 
ment as she looked out of the window. 

u Oh, that won’t kill anybody,” replied her hostess. 
“ Don’t hurry. Carrie, take the baby out to the wagon 
for Mrs. Markham while I help her with her things.” 

“ Oh, I’ve had such a good time,” Mrs. Markham 
said as they went down the little walk. 

“ So have I,” replied Mrs. Hall. She took the baby a 
moment as her guest climbed in. u Oh, you big, fat 
fellow ! ” she cried as she gave him a squeeze. “ You 
must bring your wife in oftener, Mr. Markham,” she 
said, as she handed the baby up. 

Sam was staring with amazement. 

“ Thank you, I will,” he finally managed to say. 

“ Good-night,” said Mrs. Markham. 

“ Good-night, dear,” called Mrs. Hall, and the wagon 
began to rattle off. 

The tenderness and sympathy in her voice brought 
the tears to Delia’s eyes — not hot nor bitter tears, but 
tears that cooled her eyes and cleared her mind. 


2 59 


A Day’s Pleasure 

The wind had gone down, and the red sunlight fell 
mistily over the world of corn and stubble. The crickets 
were still chirping and the feeding cattle were drifting 
toward the farmyards. The day had been made beautiful 
by human sympathy. 




















MRS. RIPLEY’S TRIP 


“And in winter the winds 
sweep the snows across it” 









MRS. RIPLEY’S TRIP 


The night was in windy November, and the blast, 
threatening rain, roared around the poor little shanty of 
Uncle Ripley, set like a chicken-trap on the vast Iowa 
prairie. Uncle Ethan was mending his old violin, with 
many York State “ dums ! ” and w I gol darns ! ” totally 
oblivious of his tireless old wife, who, having tc finished 
the supper-dishes,” sat knitting a stocking, evidently 
for the little grandson who lay before the stove like a 
cat. 

Neither of the old people wore glasses, and their 
light was a tallow candle ; they couldn’t afford u none 
o’ them new-fangled lamps.” The room was small, 
the chairs were wooden, and the walls bare — a home 
where poverty was a never-absent guest. The old lady 
looked pathetically little, weazened, and hopeless in her 
ill-fitting garments (whose original color had long since 
vanished), intent as she was on the stocking in her 
knotted, stiffened fingers, and there was a peculiar 
sparkle in her little black eyes, and an unusual resolu- 
tion in the straight line of her withered and shapeless 
lips. 

Suddenly she paused, stuck a needle in the spare 
knob of her hair at the back of her head, and looking 
at Ripley, said decisively : “ Ethan Ripley, you’ll haff 

263 


264 Main -Travelled Roads 

to do your own cooking from now on to New Year’s. 
I’m goin’ back to Yaark State.” 

The old man’s leather-brown face stiffened into a 
look of quizzical surprise for a moment ; then he 
cackled, incredulously : u Ho ! Ho ! har ! Sho ! be y’, 
now ? I want to know if y’ be.” 

“Well, you’ll find out.” 
u Goin’ to start to-morrow, mother ? ” 
u No, sir, I ain’t ; but I am on Thursday. I want 
to get to Sally’s by Sunday, sure, an’ to Silas’s on 
Thanksgivin’.” 

There was a note in the old woman’s voice that 
brought genuine stupefaction into the face of Uncle 
Ripley. Of course in this case, as in all others, the 
money consideration was uppermost. 

w Howgy ’xpect to get the money, mother ? Any- 
body died an’ left yeh a pile ? ” 

“ Never you mind where I get the money, so ’s ’t 
you don’t haff to bear it. The land knows if I’d ’a’ 
waited for you to pay my way — ” 

ct You needn’t twit me of bein’ poor, old woman,” 
said Ripley, flaming up after the manner of many old 
people. “ I’ve done my part t’ get along. I’ve worked 
day in and day out — ” 

cc Oh ! / ain’t done no work, have I ? ” snapped 

she, laying down the stocking and levelling a needle at 
him, and putting a frightful emphasis on u I.” 
u I didn’t say you hadn’t done no work.” 
w Yes, you did ! ” 
u I didn’t neither. I said — ” 


265 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 

w I know what you said.” 

“ I said Fd done my part!” roared the husband, dom- 
inating her as usual by superior lung power. “ I didn’t 
say you hadn’t done your part,” he added with an un- 
fortunate touch of emphasis. 

u I know y’ didn’t say it, but y’ meant it. I don’t 
know what y’ call doin’ my part, Ethan Ripley ; but if 
cookin’ for a drove of harvest hands and thrashin’ hands, 
takin’ care o’ the eggs and butter, ’n’ diggin’ ’taters an’ 
milkin’ ain’t my part, I don’t never expect to do my 
part, ’n’ you might as well know it fust ’s last. 

M I’m sixty years old,” she went on, with a little 
break in her harsh voice, dominating him now by 
woman’s logic, u an’ I’ve never had a day to myself, 
not even Fourth o’ July. If I’ve went a-visitin’ ’r to 
a picnic, I’ve had to come home an’ milk ’n’ get supper 
for you men-folks. I ain’t been away t’ stay overnight 
for thirteen years in this house, ’n’ it was just so in 
Davis County for ten more. For twenty-three years, 
Ethan Ripley, I’ve stuck right to the stove an’ churn 
without a day or a night off.” 

Her voice choked again, but she rallied, and con- 
tinued impressively, u And now I’m a-goin’ back to 
Yaark State.” 

Ethan was vanquished. He stared at her in speech- 
less surprise, his jaw hanging. It was incredible. 

“ For twenty-three years,” she went on, musingly, 
u I’ve just about promised myself every year I’d go 
back an’ see my folks.’' She was distinctly talking to 
herself now, and her voice had a touching, wistful 


266 


Main -Travelled Roads 


cadence. tc I’ve wanted to go back an’ see the old folks, 
an’ the hills where we played, an’ eat apples oft' the old 
tree down by the well. I’ve had them trees an’ hills in 
my mind days and days — nights, too — an’ the girls I 
used to know, an’ my own folks — ” 

She fell into a silent muse, which lasted so long that 
the ticking of the clock grew loud as a gong in the 
man’s ears, and the wind outside seemed to sound 
drearier than usual. He returned to the money prob- 
lem; kindly, though. 

u But how y’ goin’ t’ raise the money ? I ain’t got 
no extra cash this time. Agin Roach is paid, an’ the 
interest paid, we ain’t got no hundred dollars to spare, 
Jane, not by a jugful.” 

<c Wal, don’t you lay awake nights studyin’ on where 
I’m a-goin’ to get the money,” said the old woman, tak- 
ing delight in mystifying him. She had him now, and 
he couldn’t escape. He strove to show his indifference, 
however, by playing a tune or two on the violin. 

u Come, Tukey, you better climb the wooden hill,” 
Mrs. Ripley said, a half-hour later, to the little chap on 
the floor, who was beginning to get drowsy under the 
influence of his grandpa’s fiddling. u Pa, you had orta 
’a’ put that string in the clock to-day — on the ’larm 
side the string is broke,” she said, upon returning from 
the boy’s bedroom. u I orta git up early to-morrow, to 
git some sewin’ done. Land knows, I can’t fix up 
much, but they is a little I c’n do. I want to look 
decent.” 

They were alone now, and they both sat expectantly. 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 267 

u You ’pear to think, mother, that I’m agin yer goin’.” 

“Wal, it would kinder seem as if y’ hadn’t hustled 
yerself any t’ help me git off.” 

He was smarting under the sense of oeing wronged. 
“Wal, I’m just as willin’ you should go as I am for 
myself* but if I ain’t got no money I don’t see how 
I’m goin’ to send — ” 

“ I don’t want ye to send ; nobody ast ye to, Ethan 
Ripley. I guess if I had what I’ve earnt since we 
came on this farm I’d have enough to go to Jericho 
with.” 

“You’ve got as much out of it as I have,” he replied 
gently. “ You talk about your goin’ back. Ain’t I been 
wantin’ to go back myself? And ain’t I kep’ still ’cause 
I see it wa’n’t no use ? I guess I’ve worked jest as long 
and as hard as you, an’ in storms an’ in mud an’ heat, ef 
it comes t’ that.” 

The woman was staggered, but she wouldn’t give up ; 
she must get in one more thrust. 

“ Wal, if you’d ’a’ managed as well as I have, you’d 
have some money to go with.” And she rose and went 
to mix her bread and set it “ raisin’.” 

He sat by the fire twanging his fiddle softly. He 
was plainly thrown into gloomy retrospection, something 
quite unusual for him. But his fingers picking out the 
bars of a familiar tune set him to smiling, and whipping 
his bow across the strings, he forgot all about his wife’s 
resolutions and his own hardships. “Trouble always 
slid off his back like punkins off a haystack, anyway,” 
his wife said. 


268 


Main -Travelled Roads 


The old man still sat fiddling softly after his wife 
disappeared in the hot and stuffy little bedroom off the 
kitchen. His shaggy head bent lower over his violin. 
He heard her shoes drop — one , two. Pretty soon she 
called : 

“ Come, put up that squeakin’ old fiddle, and go to 
bed. Seems as if you orta have sense enough not to 
set there keepin’ everybody in the house awake.” 

“You hush up,” retorted he. “I’ll come when I git 
ready, and not till. I’ll be glad when you’re gone — ” 

“Yes, I warrant that” 

With which amiable good-night they went off to 
sleep, or at least she did, while he lay awake pondering 
on “ where under the sun she was goin’ t’ raise that 
money.” 

The next day she was up bright and early, working 
away on her own affairs, ignoring Ripley entirely, the 
fixed look of resolution still on her little old wrinkled 
face. She killed a hen and dressed and baked it. She 
fried up a pan of doughnuts and made a cake. She was 
engaged in the doughnuts when a neighbor came in, one 
of these women who take it as a personal affront when 
any one in the neighborhood does anything without 
asking their advice. She was fat, and could talk a man 
blind in three minutes by the watch. Her neighbor 
said : 

“ What’s this I hear, Mis’ Ripley ? ” 

“ I dun know. I expect you hear about all they is 
goin’ on in this neighborhood,” replied Mrs. Ripley, with 
crushing bluntness ; but the gossip did not flinch. 


269 


Mrs. Ripley's Trip 

“Well, Sett Turner told me that her husband told her 
that Ripley told him this mornin’ that you was goin’ 
back East on a visit.” 

“ Wal, what of it ? ” 

u Well, air yeh ? ” 

“The Lord willin’ an’ the weather permitting I 
expect I be.” 

“ Good land, I want to know ! Well, well ! I never 
was so astonished in my whole life. I said, says I, ‘ It 
can’t be.’ ‘Well,’ ses ’e, c tha’s what she told me,’ ses ’e. 
c But,’ says I, c she is the last woman in the world to go 
gallavantin’ off East,’ ses I. c An’,’ ses he, 1 but it comes 
from good authority,’ ses he. ‘Well, then, it must be 
so,’ ses I. But, land sakes ! do tell me all about it. 
How come you to make up y’r mind ? All these years 
you’ve been kind a’ talkin’ it over, an’ now y’r actshelly 
goin’ — well, I never ! C I s’pose Ripley furnishes the 
money,’ ses I to him. ‘Well, no,’ ses ’e. ‘Ripley says 
he’ll be blowed if he sees where the money’s coming 
from,’ ses ’e ; and ses I, ‘ But maybe she’s jest jokin’,’ 
ses I. ‘ Not much,’ he says. S’ ’e : ‘ Ripley believes 
she’s goin’ fast enough. He’s jest as anxious to find 
out as we be — ’ ” 

Here Mrs. Doudney paused for breath ; she had 
walked so fast and rested so little that her interminable 
flow of “ ses I’s ” and “ ses he’s ” ceased necessarily. 
She had reached, moreover, the point of most vital 
interest — the money. 

“ An’ you’ll find out jest ’bout as soon as he does,” 
was the dry response from the figure hovering over the 


2 JO 


Main -Travelled Roads 


stove; and with all her manoeuvring that was all she 
got. 

All day Ripley went about his work exceedingly 
thoughtful for him. It was cold blustering weather. 
The wind rustled among the corn-stalks with a wild and 
mournful sound, the geese and ducks went sprawling 
down the wind, and the horses’ coats were ruffled and 
backs raised. 

The old man was husking all alone in the field, his 
spare form rigged out in two or three ragged coats, his 
hands inserted in a pair of gloves minus nearly all the 
fingers, his thumbs done up in u stalls,” and his feet thrust 
into huge coarse boots. The “ down ears ” wet and 
chapped his hands, already worn to the quick. Toward 
night it grew colder and threatened snow. In spite of all 
these attacks he kept his cheerfulness, and though he 
was very tired, he was softened in temper. 

Having plenty of time to think matters over, he had 
come to the conclusion that the old woman needed a 
play-spell. “ I ain’t likely to be no richer next year than 
I am this one ; if I wait till I’m able to send her she 
won’t never go. I calc’late I c’n git enough out o’ 
them shoats to send her. I’d kind a’ lotted on eat’n’ them 
pigs done up in sassengers, but if the ol’ woman goes 
East, Tukey an’ me’ll kind a’ haff to pull through without 
’em. We’ll have a turkey Pr Thanksgivin’, an’ a chicken 
once ’n a while. Lord ! but we’ll miss the gravy on 
the flapjacks.” (He smacked his lips over the thought 
of the lost dainty.) “ But let ’er rip ! We can stand it. 
Then there is my buffalo overcoat. I’d kind a’ calc’lated 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 271 

on havin’ a buffalo — but that’s gone up the spout along 
with them sassengers.” 

These heroic sacrifices having been determined upon, 
he put them into effect at once. 

This he was able to do, for his corn-rows ran along- 
side the road leading to Cedarville, and his neighbors 
were passing almost all hours of the day. 

It would have softened Jane Ripley’s heart could she 
have seen his bent and stiffened form among the corn- 
rows, the cold wind piercing to the bone through his 
threadbare and insufficient clothing. The rising wind 
sent the snow rattling among the moaning stalks at in- 
tervals. The cold made his poor dim eyes water, and 
he had to stop now and then to swing his arms about 
his chest to warm them. His voice was hoarse with 
shouting at the shivering team. 

That night as Mrs. Ripley was clearing the dishes 
away she got to thinking about the departure of the next 
day, and she began to soften. She gave way to a few 
tears when little Tewksbury Gilchrist, her grandson, 
came up and stood beside her. 

tc Gran’ma, you ain’t goin’ to stay away always, are 
yeh ? ” 

“Why, course not, Tukey. What made y’ think 
that ? ” 

“ Well, y’ ain’t told us nawthin’ ’t all about it. An’ 
yeh kind o’ look ’s if yeh was mad.” 

“Well, I ain’t mad; I’m jest a-thinkin’, Tukey. Y’ 
see, I come away from them hills when I was a little 
girl a’most ; before I married y’r grandad. And I 


27 2 


Main -Travelled Roads 


ain’t never been back. ’Most all my folks is there, 
sonny, an’ we’ve been s’ poor all these years I couldn’t 
seem t’ never git started. Now, when I’m ’most ready 
t’ go, I feel kind a queer — ’s if I’d cry.” 

And cry she did, while little Tewksbury stood patting 
her trembling hands. Hearing Ripley’s step on the 
porch, she rose hastily and, drying her eyes, plunged at 
the work again. 

Ripley came in with a big armful of wood, which 
he rolled into the wood-box with a thundering crash. 
Then he pulled off his mittens, slapped them together 
to knock off the ice and snow, and laid them side by 
side under the stove. He then removed cap, coat, 
blouse, and finally his boots, which he laid upon the 
wood-box, the soles turned toward the stove-pipe. 

As he sat down without speaking, he opened the 
front doors of the stove, and held the palms of his 
stiffened hands to the blaze. The light brought out a 
thoughtful look on his large, uncouth, yet kindly, visage. 
Life had laid hard lines on his brown skin, but it had 
not entirely soured a naturally kind and simple nature. 
It had made him penurious and dull and iron-muscled ; 
had stifled all the slender flowers of his nature ; yet 
there was warm soil somewhere hid in his heart. 

“ It’s snowin’ like all p’ssessed,” he remarked finally. 
“I guess we’ll have a sleigh-ride to-morrow. I calc’late 
t’ drive y’ daown in scrumptious style. If you must 
leave, why, we’ll give yeh a whoopin’ old send-off — 
won’t we, Tukey ? ” 

Nobody replying, he waited a moment. “ I’ve ben 


273 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 

a-thinkin’ things over kind o’ t’-day, mother, an’ I’ve 
come t’ the conclusion that we have been kind o’ hard 
on yeh, without knowin’ it, y’ see. Y’ see I’m kind o’ 
easy-goin’, an’ little Tuke he’s only a child, an’ we ain’t 
c’nsidered how you felt.” 

She didn’t appear to be listening, but she was, and he 
didn’t appear, on his part, to be talking to her, and he 
* kept his voice as hard and dry as he could. 

“An’ I was tellin’ Tukey t’-day that it was a dum 
shame our crops hadn’t turned out better. An’ when I 
saw ol’ Hatfield go by I hailed him, an’ asked him what 
he’d gimme for two o’ m’ shoats. Wal, the upshot is, 
I sent t’ town for some things I calc’late you’d need. 
An’ here’s a ticket to Georgetown, and ten dollars. 
Why, ma, what’s up ? ” 

Mrs. Ripley broke down, and with her hands all wet 
with dish-water, as they were, covered her face, and 
sobbed. She felt like kissing him, but she didn’t. 
Tewksbury began to whimper too; but the old man 
was astonished. His wife had not wept for years 
(before him). He rose and walking clumsily up to her 
timidly touched her hair — 

“ Why, mother ! What’s the matter ? What ’ve I 
done now ? I was calc’latin’ to sell them pigs anyway. 
Hatfield jest advanced the money on ’em.” 

She hopped up and dashed into the bedroom, and in a 
few minutes returned with a yarn mitten, tied around 
the wrist, which she laid on the table with a thump, 
saying : “ I don’t want yer money. There’s money 
enough to take me where I want to go.” 


T 


274 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“ Whee — ew ! Thunder and gimpsum root ! Where 
’d ye get that ? Didn’t dig it out of a hole ? ” 

“ No, I jest saved it — a dime at a time — see ! ” 

Here she turned it out on the table — some bills, but 
mostly silver dimes and quarters. 

“ Thunder and scissors ! Must be two er three 
hundred dollars there,” he exclaimed. 

“ They’s jest seventy-five dollars and thirty cents ; * 
jest about enough to go back on. Tickets is fifty-five 
dollars, goin’ and cornin’. That leaves twenty dollars 
for other expenses, not countin’. what I’ve already spent, 
which is six-fifty,” said she, recovering her self-posses- 
sion. u It’s plenty.” 

“ But y’ ain’t calc’lated on no sleepers nor hotel 
bills.” 

“ I ain’t goin’ on no sleeper. Mis’ Doudney says 
it’s jest scandalous the way things is managed on them 
cars. I’m goin’ on the old-fashioned cars, where they 
ain’t no half-dressed men runnin’ around.” 

“ But you needn’t be afraid of them, mother ; at your 
age — ” 

“ There ! you needn’t throw my age an’ homeliness 
into my face, Ethan Ripley. If I hadn’t waited an’ 
tended on you so long, I’d look a little more ’s I did 
when I married yeh.” 

Ripley gave it up in despair. He didn’t realize fully 
enough how the proposed trip had unsettled his wife’s 
nerves. She didn’t realize it herself. 

“As for the hotel bills, they won’t be none. I ain’t 
agoin’ to pay them pirates as much for a day’s board as 


275 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 

we’d charge for a week’s, and have nawthin’ to eat but 
dishes. I’m goin’ to take a chicken an’ some hard-boiled 
e gg s > an ’ I’ m g°i n ’ fight through to Georgetown.” 

“Wal, all right, mother; but here’s the ticket I 
got.” 

u I don’t want yer ticket.” 

“ But you’ve got to take it.” 

“Well, I haint.” 

u Why, yes, ye have. It’s bought, an’ they won’t 
take it back.” 

“Won’t they?” She was perplexed again. 

“ Not much they won’t. I ast ’em. A ticket sold is 
sold.” 

“Wal, if they won’t — ” 

“You bet they won’t.” 

“ I s’pose I’ll haff to use it.” And that ended it. 

They were a familiar sight as they rode down the 
road toward town next day. As usual, Mrs. Ripley sat 
up straight and stiff as “ a half-drove wedge in a white- 
oak log.” The day was cold and raw. There was 
some snow on the ground, but not enough to warrant the 
use of sleighs. It was “ neither sleddin’ nor wheelin’.” 
The old people sat on a board laid across the box, 
and had an old quilt or two drawn up over their knees. 
Tewksbury lay in the back part of the box (which was 
filled with hay), where he jounced up and down, in com- 
pany with a queer old trunk and a brand-new imitation- 
leather hand-bag. 

There is no ride quite so desolate and uncomfortable as 
a ride in a lumber-wagon on a cold day in autumn, when 


276 


Main “Travelled Roads 


the ground is frozen, and the wind is strong and raw with 
threatening snow. The wagon-wheels grind along in the 
snow, the cold gets in under the seat at the calves of one’s 
legs, and the ceaseless bumping of the bottom of the box 
on the feet is almost intolerable. 

There was not much talk on the way down, and what 
little there was related mainly to certain domestic regula- 
tions, to be strictly followed, regarding churning, pickles, 
pancakes, etc. Mrs. Ripley wore a shawl over her head, 
and carried her queer little black bonnet in her hand. 
Tewksbury was also wrapped in a shawl. The boy’s 
teeth were pounding together like castanets by the time 
they reached Cedarville, and every muscle ached with 
the fatigue of shaking. 

After a few purchases they drove down to the station, 
a frightful little den (common in the West), which was 
always too hot or too cold. It happened to be hot just 
now — a fact which rejoiced little Tewksbury. 

“ Now git my trunk stamped , ’r fixed , , ’r whatever they 
call it,” she said to Ripley, in a commanding tone, which 
gave great delight to the inevitable crowd of loafers be- 
ginning to assemble. “^Now remember, Tukey, have 
grandad kill that biggest turkey night before Thanks- 
giving, an’ then you run right over to Mis’ Doudney’s — 
she’s got a nawful tongue, but she can bake a turkey 
first-rate — an’ she’ll fix up some squash-pies for yeh. 
You can warm up one o’ them mince-pies. I wish 
ye could be with me, but ye can’t ; so do the best ye 
can.” 

Ripley returning now, she said: “Wal, now, I’ve 


277 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 

fixed things up the best I could. I’ve baked bread 
enough to last a week, an’ Mis’ Doudney has promised 
to bake for yeh — ” 

“ I don’t like her bakin’.” 

“ Wal, you’ll haff to stand it till I get back, ’n’ you’ll 
find a jar o’ sweet pickles an’ some crab-apple sauce 
down suller, ’n’ you’d better melt up brown sugar for 
’lasses, V for goodness’ sake don’t eat all them mince- 
pies up the fust week, ’n’ see that Tukey ain’t froze 
goin’ to school. An’ now you’d better get out for home. 
Good-by ! an’ remember them pies.” 

As they were riding home, Ripley roused up after a 
long silence. 

w Did she — a — kiss you good-by, Tukey ? ” 

“No, sir,” piped Tewksbury. 

“ Thunder ! didn’t she ? ” After a silence : “ She 
didn’t me, neither. I guess she kind a ’ sort a’ forgot it, 
bein’ so flustrated, y’ know.” 

One cold, windy, intensely bright day, Mrs. Stacey, 
who lives about two miles from Cedarville, looking out 
of the window, saw a queer little figure struggling along 
the road, which was blocked here and there with drifts. 
It was an old woman laden with a good half-dozen 
parcels, which the wind seemed determined to wrench 
from her. 

She was dressed in black, with a full skirt, and her 
cloak being short, the wind had excellent opportunity to 
inflate her garments and sail her off occasionally into the 
deep snow outside the track, but she held out bravely 


2J% 


Main -Travelled Roads 


till she reached the gate. As she turned in, Mrs. Stacey 
cried : 

“ Why ! it’s Gran’ma Ripley, just getting back from 
her trip. Why ! how do you do ? Come in. Why ! 
you must be nearly frozen. Let me take off your hat 
and veil. 

“No, thank ye kindly, but I can’t stop,” was the 
given reply. “ I must be gittin’ back to Ripley. I ex- 
pec’ that man has jest let ev’rything go six ways f’r 
Sunday.” 

u Oh, you must sit down just a minute and warm.” 

w Wal, I will ; but I’ve got to git home by sundown 
sure. I don’t s’pose they’s a thing in the house to eat,” 
she said solemnly. 

“ Oh, dear ! I wish Stacey was here, so he could 
take you home. An’ the boys at school — ” 

“ Don’t need any help, if ’t wa’nt for these bundles 
an’ things. I guess I’ll jest leave some of ’em here, 
an’ — Here ! take one of these apples. I brought 
’em from Lizy Jane’s suller, back to Yaark State.” 

“ Oh ! they’re delicious ! You must have had a 
lovely time.” 

“ Pretty good. But I kep’ thinkin’ of Ripley an’ 
Tukey all the time. I s’pose they have had a gay time 
of it” (she meant the opposite of gay). “Wal, as I 
told Lizy Jane, I’ve had my spree, an’ now I’ve got to 
git back to work. They ain’t no rest for such as we 
are. As I told Lizy Jane, them folks in the big houses 
have Thanksgivin’ dinners every day of their lives, and 
men an’ women in splendid clo’s to wait on ’em, so ’t 


279 


Mrs. Ripley’s Trip 

Thanksgivin’ don’t mean anything to ’em ; but we poor 
critters, we make a great to-do if we have a good dinner 
onct a year. I’ve saw a pile o’ this world, Mrs. Stacey 
— a pile of it ! I didn’t think they was so many big 
houses in the world as I saw b’tween here an’ Chicago. 
Wal, I can’t set here gabbin’.” She rose resolutely. 
M I must get home to Ripley. Jest kind o’ stow them 
bags away. I’ll take two an’ leave them three others. 
Good-by ! I must be gittin’ home to Ripley. He’ll 
want his supper on time.” 

And off up the road the indomitable little figure 
trudged, head held down to the cutting blast — little 
snow-fly, a speck on a measureless expanse, crawling 
along with painful breathing, and slipping, sliding steps 
— u Gittin’ home to Ripley an’ the boy.” 

Ripley was out to the barn when she entered, but 
Tewksbury was building a fire in the old cook-stove. 
He sprang up with a cry of joy, and ran to her. She 
seized him and kissed him, and it did her so much good 
she hugged him close, and kissed him again and again, 
crying hysterically. 

“ Oh, gran’ma, I’m so glad to see you ! We’ve had 
an awful time since you’ve been gone.” 

She released him, and looked around. A lot of dirty 
dishes were on the table, the table-cloth was a “ sight 
to behold” (as she afterward said), and so was the 
stove — kettle-marks all over the table-cloth, splotches 
of pancake batter all over the stove. 

“ Wal, I sh’d say as much,” she dryly assented, un- 
tying her bonnet-strings. 


28 o 


Main -Travelled Roads 


When Ripley came in she had her regimentals on, 
the stove was brushed, the room swept, and she was 
elbow-deep in the dish-pan. u Hullo, mother ! Got 
back, hev yeh ? ” 

M I sh’d say it was about time” she replied curtly, 
without looking up or ceasing work. “ Has oP 
1 Crumpy ’ dried up yit ? ” This was her greeting. 

Her trip was a fact now; no chance could rob her 
of it. She had looked forward twenty-three years toward 
it, and now she could look back at it accomplished. 
She took up her burden again, never more thinking to 
lay it down. 


UNCLE ETHAN RIPLEY 

“Like the Main-Travelled Road of 
Life , it is traversed by many classes 
of people” 



UNCLE ETHAN RIPLEY 


Uncle Ethan had a theory that a man’s character 
could be told by the way he sat in a wagon seat. 

u A mean man sets right plumb in the middle o’ the 
seat, as much as to say, ‘Walk, gol darn yeh, who 
cares ! ’ But a man that sets in the corner o’ the 
seat, much as to say, ‘Jump in — cheaper t’ ride ’n to 
walk,’ you can jest tie to.” 

Uncle Ripley was prejudiced in favor of the stranger, 
therefore, before he came opposite the potato patch, 
where the old man was “ bugging his vines.” The 
stranger drove a jaded-looking pair of calico ponies, 
hitched to a clattering democrat wagon, and he sat on 
the extreme end of the seat, with the lines in his right 
hand, while his left rested on his thigh, with his little 
finger gracefully crooked and his elbows akimbo. He 
wore a blue shirt, with gay-colored armlets just above 
the elbows, and his vest hung unbuttoned down his 
lank ribs. It was plain he was well pleased with him- 
self. 

As he pulled up and threw one leg over the end of 
the seat, Uncle Ethan observed that the left spring was 
much more worn than the other, which proved that it 
was not accidental, but that it was the driver’s habit to 
sit on that end of the seat. 

283 


284 


Main-Travelled Roads 


“ Good afternoon,” said the stranger, pleasantly. 

“ Good afternoon, sir.” 

% 

“ Bugs purty plenty ? ” 

“ Plenty enough, I gol ! I don’t see where they all 
come fum.” 

“ Early Rose ? ” inquired the man, as if referring to 
the bugs. 

“ No ; Peachblows an’ Carter Reds. My Early 
Rose is over near the house. The old woman wants 
’em near. See the darned things ! ” he pursued, rapping 
savagely on the edge of the pan to rattle the bugs back. 

“ How do yeh kill ’em — scald ’em ? ” 

u Mostly. Sometimes I — ” 

u Good piece of oats,” yawned the stranger, listessly. 

u That’s barley.” 

u So ’tis. Didn’t notice.” 

Uncle Ethan was wondering who the man was. He 
had some pots of black paint in the wagon, and two or 
three square boxes. 

“ What do yeh think o’ Cleveland’s chances for a 
second term ? ” continued the man, as if they had been 
talking politics all the while. 

Uncle Ripley scratched his head. “Waal — I 
dunno — bein’ a Republican — I think — ” 

u That’s so — it’s a purty scaly outlook. I don’t 
believe in second terms myself,” the man hastened to 
say. 

“ Is that your new barn acrosst there ? ” he asked, 
pointing with his whip. 

“Yes, sir, it is,” replied the old man, proudly. After 


285 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 

years of planning and hard work he had managed to 
erect a little wooden barn, costing possibly three hun- 
dred dollars. It was plain to be seen he took a childish 
pride in the fact of its newness. 

The stranger mused. U A lovely place for a sign,” 
he said, as his eyes wandered across its shining yellow 
broadside. 

Uncle Ethan stared, unmindful of the bugs crawling 
over the edge of his pan. His interest in the pots of 
paint deepened. 

“ Couldn’t think o’ lettin’ me paint a sign on that 
barn ? ” the stranger continued, putting his locked hands 
around one knee, and gazing away across the pig-pen at 
the building. 

w What kind of a sign ? Gol darn your skins ! ” 
Uncle Ethan pounded the pan with his paddle and 
scraped two or three crawling abominations off his 
leathery wrist. 

It was a beautiful day, and the man in the wagon 
seemed unusually loath to attend to business. The tired 
ponies slept in the shade of the lombardies. The plain 
was draped in a warm mist, and shadowed by vast, 
vaguely defined masses of clouds — a lazy June day. 

u Dodd’s Family Bitters,” said the man, waking out 
of his abstraction with a start, and resuming his work- 
ing manner. u The best bitter in the market.” He 
alluded to it in the singular. U Like to look at it ? No 
trouble to show goods, as the fellah says,” he went on 
hastily, seeing Uncle Ethan’s hesitation. 

He produced a large bottle of triangular shape, like a 


286 


Main -Travelled Roads 


bottle for pickled onions. It had a red seal on top, and 
a strenuous caution in red letters on the neck, w None 
genuine unless ‘Dodd’s Family Bitters’ is blown in the 
bottom.” 

u Here’s what it cures,” pursued the agent, pointing 
at the side, where, in an inverted pyramid, the names 
of several hundred diseases were arranged, running from 
w gout ” to u pulmonary complaints,” etc. 

u I gol ! she cuts a wide swath, don’t she ? ” exclaimed 
Uncle Ethan, profoundly impressed with the list. 

“They ain’t no better bitter in the world,” said the 
agent, with a conclusive inflection. 

u What’s its speshy-tf/ity ? Most of ’em have some 
speshy-tf/ity.” 

w Well — summer complaints — an’ — an’ — spring 
an’ fall troubles — tones ye up, sort of.” 

Uncle Ethan’s forgotten pan was empty of his 
gathered bugs. He was deeply interested in this man. 
There was something he liked about him. 

u What does it sell fur ? ” he asked, after a pause. 

“ Same price as them cheap medicines — dollar a 
bottle — big bottles, too. Want one ? ” 

“ Wal, mother ain’t to home, an’ I don’t know as 
she’d like this kind. We ain’t been sick fr years. 
Still, they’s no tellin’,” he added, seeing the answer to 
his objection in the agent’s eyes. “ Times is purty close 
too, with us, y’ see; we’ve jest built that stable — ” 
“Say I’ll tell yeh what I’ll do,” said the stranger, 
. waking up and speaking in a warmly generous tone. 
“ I’ll give you ten bottles of the bitter if you’ll let me 


287 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 

paint a sign on that barn. It won’t hurt the barn a 
bit, and if you want ’o you can paint it out a year from 
date. Come, what d’ye say ? ” 

“ I guess I hadn’t better.” 

The agent thought that Uncle Ethan was after 
more pay, but in reality he was thinking of what his 
little old wife would say. 

u It simply puts a family bitter in your home that 
may save you fifty dollars this cornin’ fall. You can’t 
tell.” 

Just what the man said after that Uncle Ethan 
didn’t follow. His voice had a confidential purring 
sound as he stretched across the wagon-seat and talked 
on, eyes half shut. He straightened up at last, and 
concluded in the tone of one who has carried his point : 

u So ! If you didn’t want to use the whole twenty- 
five bottles y’rself, why ! sell it to your neighbors. 
You can get twenty dollars out of it easy, and still have 
five bottles of the best family bitter that ever went into 
a bottle.” 

It was the thought of this opportunity to get a 
buffalo-skin coat that consoled Uncle Ethan as he saw 
the hideous black letters appearing under the agent’s 
lazy brush. 

It was the hot side of the barn, and painting was no 
light work. The agent was forced to mop his fore- 
head with his sleeve. 

“ Say, hain’t got a cooky or anything, and a cup o’ 
milk, handy ? ” he said at the end of the first enormous 
word, which ran the whole length of tjie barn. 


288 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Uncle Ethan got him the milk and cooky, which he 
ate with an exaggeratedly dainty action of his fingers, 
seated meanwhile on the staging which Uncle Ripley 
had helped him to build. This lunch infused new 
energy into him, and in a short time “ Dodd’s Family 
Bitters, Best in the Market,” disfigured the sweet- 
smelling pine boards. 

Ethan was eating his self-obtained supper of bread 
and milk when his wife came home. 

“ Who’s been a-paintin’ on that barn ? ” she de- 
manded, her bead-like eyes flashing, her withered little 
face set in an ominous frown. “ Ethan Ripley, what 
you been doin’ ? ” 

“ Nawthin’,” he replied feebly. 
u Who painted that sign on there ? ” 

M A man come along an’ he wanted to paint that on 
there, and I let ’im ; and it’s my barn anyway. I guess 
I can do what I’m a min’ to with it,” he ended, defi- 
antly ; but his eyes wavered. 

Mrs. Ripley ignored the defiance. u What under the 
sun p’sessed you to do such a thing as that, Ethan Ripley ? 
I declare I don’t see ! You git fooler an’ fooler ev’ry 
day you live, I do believe.” 

Uncle Ethan attempted a defence. 

“Wal, he paid me twenty-five dollars f’r it, any- 
way.” 

u Did ’e ? ” She was visibly affected by this news. 
w Wal, anyhow, it amounts to that; he give me 
twenty-five bottles — ” 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 289 

Mrs. Ripley sank back in her chair. “ Wal, I swan 
to Bungay ! Ethan Ripley — wal, you beat all I ever 
see ! ” she added, in despair of expression. u I thought 
you had some sense left ; but you hain’t, not one blessed 
scimpton. Where is the stuff ? ” 

“ Down cellar, an’ you needn’t take on no airs, ol’ 
woman. I’ve known you to buy things you didn’t 
need time an’ time an’ agin — tins an’ things, an’ I 
guess you wish you had back that ten dollars you paid 
for that illustrated Bible.” 

u Go ’long an’ bring that stuff up here. I never see 
such a man in my life. It’s a wonder he didn’t do it 
f’r two bottles.” She glared out at the sign, which 
faced directly upon the kitchen window. 

Uncle Ethan tugged the two cases up and set them 
down on the floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Ripley opened 
a bottle and smelled of it like a cautious cat. 

“ Ugh ! Merciful sakes, what stuff! It ain’t fit 
f’r a hog to take. What’d you think you was goin’ 
to do with it ? ” she asked in poignant disgust. 

u I expected to take it — if I was sick. Whaddy ye 
s’pose ? ” He defiantly stood his ground, towering 
above her like a leaning tower. 

“ The hull cartload of it ? ” 

“No. I’m goin’ to sell part of it an’ git me an 
overcoat — ” 

“ Sell it ! ” she shouted. “ Nobuddy’ll buy that sick’- 
nin’ stuff but an old numskull like you. Take that slop 
out o’ the house this minute ! Take it right down to 
the sink-hole an’ smash every bottle on the stones,” 


290 


Main -Travelled Roads 


Uncle Ethan and the cases of medicine disappeared, 
and the old woman addressed her concluding remarks to 
little Tewksbury, her grandson, who stood timidly on 
one leg in the doorway, like an intruding pullet. 

“ Everything around this place ’ud go to rack an’ 
ruin if I didn’t keep a watch on that soft-pated old 
dummy. I thought that lightnin’-rod man had give him 
a lesson he’d remember ; but no, he must go an’ make a 
regular—” 

She subsided in a tumult of banging pans, which 
helped her out in the matter of expression and reduced 
her to a grim sort of quiet. Uncle Ethan went about 
the house like a convict on shipboard. Once she caught 
him looking out of the window. 

u I should think you’d feel proud o’ that.” 

Uncle Ethan had never been sick a day in his life. 
He was bent and bruised with never-ending toil, but he 
had nothing especial the matter with him. 

He did not smash the medicine, as Mrs. Ripley com- 
manded, because he had determined to sell it. The 
next Sunday morning, after his chores were done, he 
put on his best coat of faded diagonal, and was brush- 
ing his hair into a ridge across the centre of his high, 
narrow head, when Mrs. Ripley came in from feeding 
the calves. 

“ Where you goin’ now ? ” 

u None o’ your business,” he replied. u It’s darn 
funny if I can’t stir without you wantin’ to know all 
about it. Where’s Tukey?” 

“Reedin’ the chickens. You ain’t goin’ to take 


291 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 

him off this mornin’ now! I don’t care where you 
g°” 

“ Who’s a-goin’ to take him off? I ain’t said nothin’ 
about takin’ him off.” 

“Wal, take y’rself off, an’ if y’ ain’t here f’r dinner, 
I ain’t goin’ to get no supper.” 

Ripley took a water-pail and put four bottles of “ the 
bitter ” into it, and trudged away up the road with it in 
a pleasant glow of hope. All nature seemed to declare 
the day a time of rest, and invited men to disassociate 
ideas of toil from the rustling green wheat, shining grass, 
and tossing blooms. Something of the sweetness and 
buoyancy of all nature permeated the old man’s work- 
calloused body, and he whistled little snatches of the 
dance tunes he played on his fiddle. 

But he found neighbor Johnson to be supplied with 
another variety of bitter, which was all he needed for 
the present. He qualified his refusal to buy with a cor- 
dial invitation to go out and see his shoats, in which he 
took infinite pride. But Uncle Ripley said : “ I guess 
I’ll haf t’ be goin’; I want ’o git up to Jennings’ before 
dinner.” 

He couldn’t help feeling a little depressed when he 
found Jennings away. The next house along the pleas- 
ant lane was inhabited by a “newcomer.” He was 
sitting on the horse-trough, holding a horse’s halter, 
while his hired man dashed cold water upon the galled 
spot on the animal’s shoulder. 

After some preliminary talk Ripley presented his 
medicine. 


292 


Main -Travelled Roads 


“Hell, no! What do I want of such stuff? When 
they’s anything the matter with me, I take a lunkin’ of 
swig of popple-bark and bourbon ! That fixes me.” 

Uncle Ethan moved off up the lane. He hardly felt 
like whistling now. At the next house he set his pail 
down in the weeds beside the fence, and went in with- 
out it. Doudney came to the door in his bare feet, 
buttoning his suspenders over a clean boiled shirt. He 
was dressing to go out. 

“ Hello, Ripley. I was just goin’ down your way. 
Jest wait a minute, an* I’ll be out.” 

When he came out, fully dressed, Uncle Ethan grap- 
pled him. 

“Say, what d’ you think o’ paytent med — ” 

“ Some of ’em are boss. But y’ want ’o know what 
y’re gittin’.” 

“What d’ ye think o’ Dodd’s — ” 

“ Best in the market.” 

Uncle Ethan straightened up and his face lighted. 
Doudney went on : 

“Yes, sir; best bitter that ever went into a bottle. I 
know, I’ve tried it. I don’t go much on patent medi- 
cines, but when I get a good — ” 

“ Don’t want ’o buy a bottle ? ” 

Doudney turned and faced him. 

“ Buy ! No. I’ve got nineteen bottles I want ’o 
sell” Ripley glanced up at Doudney’s new granary and 
there read “ Dodd’s Family Bitters.” He was stricken 
dumb. Doudney saw it all, and roared. 

“Wal, that’s a good one! We two tryin’ to sell 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 293 

each other bitters. Ho — ho — ho — har, whoop ! wal, 
this is rich ! How many bottles did you git ? ” 

cc None o’ your business,” said Uncle Ethan, as he 
turned and made off, while Doudney screamed with 
merriment. 

On his way home Uncle Ethan grew ashamed of his 
burden. Doudney had canvassed the whole neighbor- 
hood, and he practically gave up the struggle. Every- 
body he met seemed determined to find out what he had 
been doing, and at last he began lying about it. 

“ Hello, Uncle Ripley, what y’ got there in that 
pail ? ” 

w Goose eggs f ’r settin’.” 

He disposed of one bottle to old Gus Peterson. Gus 
never paid his debts, and he would only promise fifty 
cents w on tick ” for the bottle, and yet so desperate 
was Ripley that this questionable sale cheered him up 
not a little. 

As he came down the road, tired, dusty, and hungry, 
he climbed over the fence in order to avoid seeing that 
sign on the barn, and slunk into the house without 
looking back. 

He couldn’t have felt meaner about it if he had 
allowed a Democratic poster to be pasted there. 

The evening passed in grim silence, and in sleep he 
saw that sign wriggling across the side of the barn like 
boa-constrictors hung on rails. He tried to paint them 
out, but every time he tried it the man seemed to come 
back with a sheriff, and savagely warned him to let it 
Stay till the year was up. In some mysterious way the 


294 


Main -Travelled Roads 


agent seemed to know every time he brought out the 
paint-pot, and he was no longer the pleasant-voiced in- 
dividual who drove the calico ponies. 

As he stepped out into the yard next morning that 
abominable, sickening, scrawling advertisement was the 
first thing that claimed his glance — it blotted out the 
beauty of the morning. 

Mrs. Ripley came to the window, buttoning her dress 
at the throat, a wisp of her hair sticking assertively 
from the little knob at the back of her head. 

“ Lovely, ain’t it ! An’ /’ve got to see it all day 
long. I can’t look out the winder but that thing’s 
right in my face.” It seemed to make her savage. She 
hadn’t been in such a temper since her visit to New 
York. “ I hope you feel satisfied with it.” 

Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean 
sweet newness was gone. He slyly tried the paint to 
see if it couldn’t be scraped off, but it was dried in thor- 
oughly. Whereas before he had taken delight in hav- 
ing his neighbors turn and look at the building, now he 
kept out of sight whenever he saw a team coming. He 
hoed corn away in the back of the field, when he should 
have been bugging potatoes by the roadside. 

Mrs. Ripley was in a frightful mood about it, but she 
held herself in check for several days. At last she 
burst forth : 

“ Ethan Ripley, I can’t stand that thing any longer, 
and I ain’t goin’ to, that’s all! You’ve got to go and 
paint that thing out, or I will. I’m just about crazy 
with it.” 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 295 

u But, mother, I promised — ” 

“ I don’t care what you promised, it’s got to be 
painted out. I’ve got the nightmare now, seein’ it. I’m 
goin’ to send f ’r a pail o’ red paint, and I’m goin’ to 
paint that out if it takes the last breath I’ve got to do 
it.” 

“ I’ll tend to it, mother, if you won’t hurry 
me — ” 

“ I can’t stand it another day. It makes me boil 
every time I look out the winder.” 

Uncle Ethan hitched up his team and drove gloomily 
off to town, where he tried to find the agent. He lived 
in some other part of the county, however, and so the 
old man gave up and bought a pot of red paint, not 
daring to go back to his desperate wife without it. 

w Goin’ to paint y’r new barn ? ” inquired the mer- 
chant, with friendly interest. 

Uncle Ethan turned with guilty sharpness ; but the 
merchant’s face was grave and kindly. 

“Yes, I thought I’d tech it up a little — don’t cost 
much.” 

“ It pays — always,” the merchant said emphatically. 

“ Will it — stick jest as well put on evenings ? ” in- 
quired Uncle Ethan, hesitatingly. 

“Yes — won’t make any difference. Why? Ain’t 
goin’ to have — ” 

“ Wal, — I kind o’ thought I’d do it odd times night 
an’ mornin* — kind o’ odd times — ” 

He seemed oddly confused about it, and the merchant 
looked after him anxiously as he drove away. 


Main -Travelled Roads 


296 

After supper that night he went out to the barn, and 
Mrs. Ripley heard him sawing and hammering. Then 
the noise ceased, and he came in and sat down in his 
usual place. 

“ What y’ ben makin’ ? ” she inquired. Tewksbury 
had gone to bed. She sat darning a stocking. 

u I jest thought I’d git the stagin’ ready f ’r paintin’,” 
he said, evasively. 

“Wal! I’ll be glad when it’s covered up.” When 
she got ready for bed, he was still seated in his chair, 
and after she had dozed off two or three times she began 
to wonder why he didn’t come. When the clock struck 
ten, and she realized that he had not stirred, she began 
to get impatient. “ Come, are y’ goin’ to sit there all 
night ? ” There was no reply. She rose up in bed 
and looked about the room. The broad moon flooded 
it with light, so that she could see he was not asleep in 
his chair, as she had supposed. There was something 
ominous in his disappearance. 

u Ethan ! Ethan Ripley, where are yeh ! ” There 
was no reply to her sharp call. She rose and dis- 
tractedly looked about among the furniture, as if he 
might somehow be a cat and be hiding in a corner 
somewhere. Then she went upstairs where the boy 
slept, her hard little heels making a curious tunking 
noise on the bare boards. The moon fell across the 
sleeping boy like a robe of silver. He was alone. 

She began to be alarmed. Her eyes widened in fear. 
All sorts of vague horrors sprang unbidden into her 
brain. She still had the mi$t of sleep in her brain. 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 297 

She hurried down the stairs and out into the fragrant 
night. The katydids were singing in infinite peace 
under the solemn splendor of the moon. The cattle 
sniffed and sighed, jangling their bells now and then, 
and the chickens in the coop stirred uneasily as if over- 
heated. The old woman stood there in her bare feet 
and long nightgown, horror-stricken. The ghastly 
story of a man who had hung himself in his barn 
because his wife deserted him came into her mind, and 
stayed there with frightful persistency. Her throat 
filled chokingly. 

She felt a wild rush of loneliness. She had a sudden 
realization of how dear that gaunt old figure was, with 
its grizzled face and ready smile. Her breath came 
quick and quicker, and she was at the point of bursting 
into a wild cry to Tewksbury, when she heard a strange 
noise. It came from the barn, a creaking noise. She 
looked that way, and saw in the shadowed side a deeper 
shadow moving to and fro. A revulsion to astonish- 
ment and anger took place in her. 

“ Land o’ Bungay ! If he ain’t paintin’ that barn, 
like a perfect old idiot, in the night.” 

Uncle Ethan, working desperately, did not hear her 
feet pattering down the path, and was startled by her 
shrill voice. 

“ Well, Ethan Ripley, whaddy y’ think you’re doin’ 
now ? ” 

He made two or three slapping passes with the brush, 
and then snapped out, u I’m a-paintin’ this barn — 
whaddy ye s’pose ? If ye had eyes y’ wouldn’t ask.” 


Main -Travelled Roads 


298 

“Well, you come right straight to bed. What d’you 
mean by actin’ so ? ” 

“ You go back into the house an’ let me be. I know 
what Fm a-doin’. You’ve pestered me about this sign 
jest about enough.” He dabbed his brush to and fro 
as he spoke. His gaunt figure towered above her in 
shadow. His slapping brush had a vicious sound. 

Neither spoke for some time. At length she said 
more gently, u Ain’t you cornin’ in ? ” 

u No — not till I get a-ready. You go ’long an’ tend 
to y’r own business. Don’t stan’ there an’ ketch cold.” 

She moved off slowly toward the house. His shout 
subdued her. Working alone out there had rendered 
him savage ; he was not to be pushed any further. She 
knew by the tone of his voice that he must now be 
respected. She slipped on her shoes and a shawl, and 
came back where he was working, and took a seat on a 
saw-horse. 

u Fm goin’ to set right here till you come in, Ethan 
Ripley,” she said, in a firm voice, but gentler than usual. 

“ Wal, you’ll set a good while,” was his ungracious 
reply, but each felt a furtive tenderness for the other. 
He worked on in silence. The boards creaked heavily 
as he walked to and fro, and the slapping sound of the 
paint-brush sounded loud in the sweet harmony of 
the night. The majestic moon swung slowly round the 
corner of the barn, and fell upon the old man’s grizzled 
head and bent shoulders. The horses inside could be 
heard stamping the mosquitoes away, and chewing their 
hay in pleasant chorus. 


Uncle Ethan Ripley 299 

The little figure seated on the saw-horse drew the 
shawl closer about her thin shoulders. Her eyes were 
in shadow, and her hands were wrapped in her shawl. 
At last she spoke in a curious tone. 

cc Wal, I don’t know as you was so very much to 
blame. I didn't want that Bible myself — I held out I 
did, but I didn’t.” 

Ethan worked on until the full meaning of this un- 
precedented surrender penetrated his head, and then he 
threw down his brush. 

“ Wal, I guess I’ll let ’er go at that. I’ve covered 
up the most of it, anyhow. Guess we better go in.” 


THE END 


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